


(a picture paints) A Thousand Words

by JolyOllie



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Geralt has ptsd, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Healing, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Nonbinary Character, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Second Chances, Service Dog Roach!!!, Slow Burn, Trans Character, art therapy aus are not a thing and yet here we are, but nothing horrible happens, creeps die by my blade, dumb men, google translated polish, inappropriate adult/minor relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JolyOllie/pseuds/JolyOllie
Summary: “I’m Jaskier,” the man said, visibly vibrating with nervous energy. “I’m sorry,” Geralt turned to see his knees bouncing wildly and fingers fidgeting, “about before...”Geralt is decidedly not the usual type you'd expect to see in an art therapy class. The people currently surrounding him are either too sullen, snarky, or loud for his tastes.And just because EVERYONE seems to agree that he needs to escape his miserable comfort zone and 'socialise', doesn't mean they're right.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 335
Kudos: 755





	1. Chapter 1

The thin paper was rough as Geralt rolled it between his fingertips. Quietly, he sneered at the idea that his psychiatrist’s office couldn’t afford more than half-ply tissues while they charged him two hundred an hour, but the sharp clearing of his therapist’s throat brought him back to the matter at hand.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Geralt?”

The man opposite, sitting in a shiny leather chair, was elderly, the furrow in his brow highlighting the fact. In his eyes was an intelligent sparkle thinly veiling something Geralt had never taken kindly to: Pity. _No, not this time._ Desperation.

Dr Stregobor looked at Geralt like he was a wild animal, like he’d snap at any moment and rip the jugular vein straight from his neck with his canine teeth. And it’s not that Geralt _couldn’t_ do that. There was not a doubt in his mind that he _could_ , and there were days when he sat stiffly on the lumpy faux-suede sofa that his psyche had somehow deemed appropriate to see clients on and imagined the old man’s anatomy like it was drawn on him in a textbook - plotting out his trachea, his larynx. But he _wouldn’t_ , and the fact that, despite every assurance on the contrary, Geralt could practically _smell_ the fear on the man just twisted the dagger deeper. If a trained professional flinched when he reached for a glass of water, what the fuck is the rest of the world supposed to do?

Geralt had considered walking away from his court ordered sessions many times – the balding man opposite, currently watching his every move, could hardly stop him – but no therapy meant no Ciri, and Geralt would be damned if that was something he let happen. Not now.

“Hm.”

Stregobor sighed. “Geralt, we’ve talked about this…”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good!” A relieved smile expanded across the doctor’s features. “Now, there are a few groups I send my clients to, but I think this one would be best suited to your… situation…”

Geralt looked out the window, watching cars drive by on the motorway. Red, black, white. The tissue paper was still course, rubbing the sensitive pads of his fingers.

.

.

“You’re going to a _what?”_

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“Have you ever even held a paintbrush? In your hand?”

Geralt met his company’s gaze with the driest look he could muster. “Where the hell else would I hold it?”

“I don’t know,” Yennefer shrugged. “You just don’t seem the type.”

“Because I’m not.”

The café they were in was crowded and loud in the way that sent Geralt the most mad – there was no singular noise to pick up on and drown out, rather a million small ones all mingling together and forming a mass that hung over his head like a plastic bag. Some awful tween pop star played on the radio above them. Middle-aged white women moaned about their unsatisfying marriages to their left, occasionally throwing far too obvious glances toward Yen and Geralt’s table, giggling behind their hands in a way that made his skin crawl. The steam wand on the espresso machine made that awful sucking noise – or was it blowing? Dinner bells ding-ed, chefs yelled _Order up!_ Roach shuffled at his feet.

Geralt wanted to go home.

“I suppose it could be fun,” she mused, dipping a strawberry in chocolate. The way she wrapped her lips around it made Geralt’s eyes roll, and her smirk widened. “Might even make some friends.”

His permanently pinched expression obviously worsened, judging by the cackle that escaped the witch.

“I’m sure Ciri could teach you a thing or two, as well. She was a real prodigy in her youth!”

“She still is.”

“Yes, yes, Geralt. You’re very proud of your wonderful daughter, we know!” She patted his arm gently and sat back into the velvet upholstery of their booth. “Oh, stop brooding! I’m sure it’ll be fine!”

 _Yes_. He thought. _Fine._

.

.

Geralt was not fine. He hadn’t slept in three days, and the cracks were starting to show. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the vacant expression passing over his features as fatigue fogged his mind even further, despite his best efforts to focus on Ciri’s plans for the day.

Wetness covered his hand, suddenly, and he looked down to see Roach lapping at his fingers. He pushed the chocolate Labrador away gently, only to look up and see an equally concerned expression on his god-daughter’s face.

Fuck.

“Are you okay?” She asked, picking the crusts off her toast.

Geralt forced a smile. “Peachy.”

She didn’t look convinced. “You’ve got that class today, right? At the Temeria Institute.”

“Yeah.” Like it or not, the appointment had been made, and then snuck up on him like a tiger in the undergrowth.

“I’m jealous.”

Ciri shrugged when Geralt looked at her, perplexed.

“I’d much rather be making collages or whatever you’re going to be doing than trigonometry.”

“School is important.”

“I know,” she sighed, looking forlornly at the lonely crusts now sitting on her plate. “Maybe you can suss it out, and if it’s not crap I can come along next time.”

“You’re not getting out of school for an art therapy session.”

She huffed and sat back in her chair, arms folded in an adorably petulant expression.

“…I can… find one that runs on the weekend… if you’d like…” Geralt stuttered out. Fuck, he needed to get better at this. Cirilla had been through a lot in her short little life, and the least she deserved was an emotionally competent guardian.

Ciri pouted slightly as she considered the offer, before her face split into a bright smile.

“See how you go first. I don’t want to waste my time on some new age bullshit if it’s not worth it.”

“Language!”

“Yeah, yeah!” She laughed, scooping up her school bag from the foot of the stairs. “Bye, Roach!”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t let me go to your painting class!” Ciri yelled as she closed the front door, but Geralt saw her wave madly through the window all the same.

A smile tugged at his lips as he watched Roach yip and run up to windowsill, licking the glass that separated her from Ciri’s increasingly silly faces.

.

.

The Temeria Institute was, for all intents and purposes, a warehouse in North London. It was a nice warehouse, carefully rebricked on the outside to maintain its industrial charm, with floor to ceiling windows that flooded the foyer with autumn light. The water cooler in the corner hummed, and Geralt noticed that they’d need to refill the supply of plastic cups soon.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The man at reception had a phoney smile plastered onto his face – classic customer service type. It wasn’t his fault, but Geralt probably would’ve preferred a grimace all the same.

“I’m here for the, uh… 10:30 meeting…” The receptionist watched him expectantly. “Geralt du Rivia.”

“Art therapy?”

“Hm.”

“Wonderful, sir,” the man said, tapping away at his keyboard. “Your doctor has sent all your information through, so I won’t burden you with any of that,” the receptionist laughed at what Geralt assumed must have been a receptionist joke. “Your group will be on the second floor, first door on your left out of the elevator.”

Geralt nodded. “C’mon, Roach.”

“Oh, will your dog be joining you?”

 _Stupid fucking question,_ Geralt thought, turning to the man.

“Is that okay,” he read the nametag pinned to the smaller man’s tie, “Ostrit?”

The man faltered. “Of course,” he said, too-big smile quickly re-placed.

Geralt eyed Ostrit for a moment. “Hm.”

A few metres away, the elevator ding-ed. A young woman held the door open, smirking in Geralt’s direction.

“Come on!” She called.

Slipping inside, Geralt nodded in appreciation.

“Don’t worry about him,” the woman said, flipping short brown hair out of her face. “Ostrit’s a prick, but you learn to drown it out.”

“I’d ask what he was doing working here, but we seem to attract assholes.”

The woman snorted. “They love to act like even being in the same building, let alone working with us grants them some kind of saintly status. Like we’d all fall to pieces without them.”

Geralt grunted.

“Maybe some of us would.”

“But not you?”

She shrugged. “Life goes on – difficult or less so.”

Finally, the doors opened, Roach bravely leading the way out, stopping only to sniff the contents of a potted plant.

“Stop it,” Geralt chastised, pulling her along.

The woman smiled. “She’s cute.”

Just as Os-prick had promised, to the left of the elevator were a set of double doors, opening into a studio. White walls bounced light from leaded windows, illuminating the space and showing off the variety of paper mache sculptures and amateur watercolours displayed around the room.

Geralt tensed instinctively. He had never been more out of his element.

“Hi, you two!” A kind-faced woman wearing a paint splattered apron met them in the doorway. “I’m Triss, I’m your facilitator. Feel free to take a seat anywhere,” she said, gesturing around the room to the easels set up in a semi-circle, all pointing towards a desk on the far wall. “We’ll be starting in a few minutes.”

She sent another warm smile their way before gliding over to speak to a kid who didn’t look much older than Ciri, beanie pulled low, picking at his sweater sleeves.

“Looks like we’re buddies now,” Geralt’s elevator companion said, taking her seat at an easel and setting up the sketch pad.

“Guess so,” Geralt replied, sitting next to her.

“In that case,” she said, turning towards him and sticking out her hand, “I’m Renfri.”

“Geralt.” Her grasp was firm, much firmer than he’d expected from the slight woman. The pressure stayed with him as they pulled apart, fingers tingling. He didn’t dwell on it.

Triss cut through the centre of the room and jumped up to sit on the desk, clasping her hands together and smiling wide at her sullen subjects.

“Okay, it’s 10:30 now, so why don’t we make a start. There are a few new faces around, so once again, I’m Triss, I’ll be facilitating these workshops. Please remember, this is _not_ an art class. You will not be graded; we are not comparing. This room acts as a safe space for you to explore yourselves and your relationships with the world.”

Geralt noticed Renfri’s smirk broaden.

“You’re all here for your own individual reasons. All _I_ require from you, is an open mind - ”

Suddenly, the room’s attention shifted to a kerfuffle in the hallway, revealing a disheveled man at the door.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! Sorry I’m late!” The man’s voice was loud, and not just to Geralt’s acute senses. Multiple group members reeled back at the onslaught of noise, a few even grimacing.

The doe-eyed man had the sense to look a little sheepish as he shuffled into the studio, heading towards to final free easel next to…

_Fuck._

Geralt.

The man’s eyes got impossibly wider at the sight of Roach sitting patiently at his side. He gasped, “Doggy!” and leapt to pat her.

A deep rumble erupted from Roach – not a threat, but certainly a warning. Geralt’s chest bubbled with pride.

“Welcome, please take a seat – and thank you for reminding me,” Triss said, voice level and sweet, but smile more brittle than before. “We’ve got a lovely service dog with us today, so let’s get into some etiquette for anyone unaware. Um…” She held her hand out towards –

“Geralt.”

“Geralt. Anything in particular we need to know?”

Roach looked lovingly up to him, like butter wouldn’t melt in her vigilant, protective mouth. Geralt had to hold back a snort at the cheeky mutt’s feigned innocence.

“This is Roach,” he said, and then looked directly into cornflower blue peepers. “Don’t touch her.”

The culprit slid onto his stool, a nervous and watery smile gracing his pink lips.

Geralt decisively ignored that last observation.

“Yes, good,” Triss said, breaking the uneasy tension present in the room. “Roach is not a pet, she’s a working dog. Just like you wouldn’t cuddle a paramedic while they’re performing CPR, don’t invade her personal space either.”

Roach wagged her tail at all this newfound attention, shuffling over to lay across Geralt’s feet.

Triss then went into an explanation of the different art mediums they had access to and a little bit on how to use them, but Geralt didn’t really hear much of that. He was too busy pointedly trying to ignore the young man next to him who seemed dead set on burning holes into the side of Geralt’s skull with his staring.

The group disbanded to collect what they wanted to use in today’s session, Renfri arching an eyebrow at Geralt as she got up. He stayed sitting, deciding to wait out the mad rush and take whatever was left. Unfortunately, it seemed that his owlish neighbour had a similar idea.

“I’m Jaskier,” the man said, visibly vibrating with nervous energy. “I’m sorry,” Geralt turned to see his knees bouncing wildly and fingers fidgeting, “about before.”

“Hm.”

The crowd around the paints and pastels was starting to thin.

“I just get so excited about - !” The man continued, unperturbed by Geralt’s overt lack of interest.

A new plan of action was needed, then. Evasive. Geralt rose and strode over to an extensive pack of coloured pencils. He turned to return to his seat, only to freeze at what he saw waiting for him.

Roach had sat up from where he’d left her, and was now laying her head in Jaskier’s lap. The poor man was stock still, seemingly terrified to move a muscle and irritate the dog. The sight shifted from shocking to humorous in seconds.

“The chosen one!” Renfri teased when Geralt arrived back at his station.

“She’s trained to pick up on panic and stress,” he explained. “Guess she decided you needed her more than I did.”

Jaskier huffed out what could’ve been a laugh if he wasn’t working so hard on imitating a statue.

Geralt held back a smile. “Once _she_ touches _you_ it’s fair game.”

The way Jaskier’s entire body turned to jelly after hearing that one sentence was almost laughable. Almost. The pout that formed on his lips when Roach left him, deeming her services no longer necessary, was even more so – almost succeeding in drawing a low chuckle from the bigger man... Almost.

Geralt had never seen a human being so animated before. The man was like a one-person pantomime, wearing every emotion on his sleeve all at once. It was dizzying to look at, so Geralt didn’t.

Instead, he focused on getting a nice sketch of Roach on paper, and if she was lying on pink converse in the picture instead of beat up old boots, no one needed to know.

Renfri definitely noticed.

But she wasn’t going to mention it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri demands a debrief, and becomes Jaskier's biggest fan.  
> Unfortunately, the next session doesn't go as well... for many reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one got away from me a bit so i'm sorry it's a bit.... sad at times  
> hope you enjoy anyway!

At home that afternoon, Geralt looked over his artwork. The colour was off – the brown he’d used had too much red in it, and didn’t match Roach’s natural hue, which was more golden in tone. Her eyes were too far apart, and the position she held slumped over Jaskier’s shoes looked unnatural and uncomfortable. Nevertheless, people had seemed very impressed with it.

_“Are you sure this is your first time?” Renfri asked, gaze scrutinizing._

_Jaskier stared, as he seemed prone to do, eyes wide and full of wonder. He knelt down to grab Roach’s attention, giving her a good neck scratch._

_“Look, Roachie, it’s you! You’re so beautiful!”_

_Roach had looked mostly nonplussed, but did sniff the paper a little before laying down again for a nap._

_“This is wonderful, Geralt,” Triss said, eyes bright. “Would you say attention to detail is a strong suit of yours?”_

_Geralt bristled under the questioning before remembering that Triss wasn’t interested in examining him, but understanding him. Friendly, good natured curiosity was a normal part of developing friendships, Stregobor had lectured to him many a time. Opening oneself up to being known was an act of bravery like no other._

_He took a deep breath._

_“S’pose.”_

Now, he didn’t know what to do with it. Frame it? That seemed a bit excessive. He didn’t want to throw it away, though. Despite its flaws, Geralt did feel an odd sense of pride in his work.

But Yen would be back with Ciri soon, and he wanted to get a start on dinner.

Leaving the pesky drawing on the kitchen table, Geralt went to find some inspiration in the fridge, keeping in mind that Yennefer had probably bought his daughter some disgusting snack food at the shopping centre on the way home and ruined her appetite, so it didn’t matter much anyway.

.

.

A hearty pasta sauce on the stove, Geralt was just finishing up grooming Roach when the click of the front door, followed by a trickle of girly laughter, alerted him to new arrivals. Roach clattered towards them, paws slipping out from under her as she pivoted on polished wooden floorboards.

“ROACH!” Ciri cried, kneeling down to meet the dog with a big cuddle.

“Something smells good,” Yennefer said, unwrapping her scarf from around her neck and hanging it on the coat rack by the door.

Geralt went over to help her out of the cape-poncho-thing that she insisted was functional as _well_ as fashionable.

_“Something_ you _wouldn’t understand.”_

_“Hm.”_

“You staying for dinner?”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

“Ha!” Her eyes lit up with mirth at the gentle ribbing that had always defined their relationship - from young lovers straight out of high school, to long distance sweethearts falling apart at the seams, to whatever the fuck they were now.

“So, what did you do today?” She said, sashaying through the living room into the kitchen. The way Yennefer Vengerberg moved had always fascinated Geralt. It was what had drawn him to her in the first place. Every gesture, every step, was perfectly calculated and precisely performed. He’d never once seen her trip on uneven pavement, or hit her funny bone and cringe. Yennefer took her time wherever she went, and if she wasn’t going fast enough, then the world slowed down around her. She was hypnotic, and often used it to her advantage.

Unfortunately, a straight spine and gliding gait do not a perfect relationship make, they had learnt.

“He went to the painting class!” Ciri called from the other room, now running in to inspect the bolognese sauce on the stove.

“Oh, was that today?”

“Hm,” was all Geralt said, watching intently as Yennefer picked up Roach’s portrait with a manicured hand and regarded it.

She had incredibly high standards, Geralt knew. He knew because he’d never met them. After all these years, though, he refused to be intimidated by her aloof countenance. Judging by the way Roach whined and sat on his feet, he’d failed at that yet again.

“Geralt,” she announced, tearing him away from more self-destructive thinking, “this is bloody brilliant.”

_What?_

“… What?”

Yennefer sighed. “I _can_ be nice!” She said, and looked down at the drawing again, a small smile gracing her lips. “Especially when it’s true.”

“Whose shoes are those?” Ciri asked, having come around to peak over her aunt’s shoulder.

Geralt blanked.

Yennefer flipped the page, displaying the pink sneakers in all their glory, eyebrows raised playfully.

“Roach… made a friend.”

“ _Roach_ did?” Yennefer sounded unconvinced, a smug crease developing along her cheek that threatened to become a smirk.

“Yeah, she’s… very popular.”

“Of course, she is! She’s beautiful!” Ciri cooed, making grabby hands for the dog in question.

A soft chuckle escaped Geralt before he could stop it. “That’s what Jaskier said,” he mumbled to himself.

“Jaskier?”

_Fuck._

“Roach’s… friend.”

Ciri rolled her eyes and stood.

“How about,” she bargained, “I tell you about school if you tell us what _actually_ happened today.”

All she got in return was a curt grunt, but it was clearly enough affirmation for her to collect plates and cutlery from the drawer and set the table.

.

.

“He sounds like a handful.” 

“He sounds _adorable!”_

Geralt frowned. “He’s a grown man, Ciri. He’s not adorable.”

Rolling her eyes for the second time that night, Ciri scoffed. “Adults can be cute, Dad. Roach is all grown up and she’s adorable.”

“She’s a dog.”

“You understand the point I’m making; you’re just being purposefully obtuse.”

Geralt glared daggers at the woman across the table who had taught his little girl to be so headstrong and astute. Yennefer batted her long lashes innocently at him, honourable act only ruined by the relentless smirk present on her lips.

“When do we get to meet him?”

Geralt stood to collect the dirty dishes, scowl growing deeper. He pointedly ignored Yennefer’s sounds of protest as he picked up her almost finished plate. Once at the sink, he threw a tea towel to Ciri and started running the hot water. He knew better than to expect manual labour from Yennefer.

Nimble as ever, the young girl caught the cloth with no trouble and hopped over to help clean up.

“Well?” She said, toothy grin present on her face.

Geralt let out a grunt that may have sounded like a groan if you didn’t know him well enough. “You’re not meeting a random person I met at therapy. That’s ridiculous.”

“But Roach likes him!” She exclaimed. “That _never_ happens!”

As if on cue, the traitorous dog yapped.  
“Who’s side are you on?” He muttered to the hound.

“Roach is a perfectly sociable dog,” Yennefer said, strolling over to lean against the counter and watch the other two work.  
Draining the sink and drying his hands, Geralt smiled. “ _Thank you_ , Yen.” 

“But I will admit, it is quite cute. This guy must be pretty special to have captured both of your attentions so quickly.”

Geralt threw the now wet towel square into the woman’s face.

.

.

The next week began much the same. Ostrit nodded to him as he entered, still eyeing Roach with some form of distaste. Renfri met him at the water cooler. They rode the elevator together in blessed silence. Roach sniffed the plant pot again.

The first change to his emerging routine began as soon as they entered the studio - Jaskier was already there. He was wringing his hands together, not unlike the last time they met, and speaking quickly, but this time his tones were hushed. He clearly didn’t want anyone except Triss to hear whatever he was talking about. Geralt saw Triss offer a smile and place her hands over Jaskier’s fidgeting ones, nodding sagely and rubbing her thumbs along his knuckles. She murmured something that seemed to calm the man somewhat, as he extricated himself and turned to find his seat.

And saw Geralt.

Staring.

_Fuck._

Immediately, Geralt’s brain kicked into gear, frantically trying to think of some way to appear inconspicuous, like he _hadn’t_ been invading the guy’s privacy mere seconds before. Roach had other plans, however, whining and tugging at her leash, scrabbling to reach her new best friend.

“Hello, darling!” Jaskier sighed. He sounded tired. Dark circles hung under his eyes as he lent down to greet the Labrador, and Geralt couldn’t help the pang of worry that shot through his chest at seeing such a stark contrast to the man he’d met just seven days before.

Bloodshot blue eyes raised to meet his. “Hi.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say. The man he’d described to Ciri and Yennefer – the man he’d thought he’d met – bared no resemblance to the poor soul in front of him. He was so much smaller this time – not in stature, but somehow in size.

Thankfully, Renfri swooped in before the gap in conversation could get any more painful.

“Ready for today?”

“Of course!” It was forced, but the enthusiasm was encouraging, nonetheless.

Roach licked at Jaskier’s jaw, drawing out a laugh that sucked the air from Geralt’s lungs as his eyes trained onto day-old stubble.

“Icky, baby! Icky, icky! No!”

“Roach, c’mere.”

.

.

Today, Triss told them, they would be working on focus projects, which basically meant they could choose any of the objects on the table to draw. The idea was to give them something tangible to concentrate on and recreate, apparently.

A lamp, a teddy bear, or a fruit bowl.

Geralt decided that clichés were clichés because they worked, so he decided on the bowl of grapes, apples and bananas as he collected a watercolour palette from the front.

Curiously, Jaskier came back to his station carrying only three large pots of kid-safe poster paint in red, blue and yellow, and a raggedy paintbrush. He simply smiled at Geralt and Renfri’s confused expressions, and unscrewed the red lid.

Renfri shrugged and started on the outline of the teddy bear, so Geralt followed suit.

The second his brush hit paper to begin forming the ceramic bowl, the other man’s plans became clear. Very clear.

Paint flicked across the open sketch pad, creating a wild and erratic pattern of stripes and spots along the centre of the page.

Geralt saw red – more red than he should have. It was darker, too, like it was oxidising against the whitewashed wall that the little girl sat against, still. Very still. Too still. He should’ve been able to see the rise and fall of her breathing against the thin fabric of her dress, but there was nothing.

There were machine guns echoing outside the building.

It didn’t matter.

He knelt in front of the child and held a hand to her soft cheek. She was still so full of baby fat. He slapped her, shook her, begged her to wake up, to stop messing around and take the trouble she was in seriously, but she wouldn’t. She sat there, limp and unmoving, head lolling to the side where Geralt had shifted her. Blood dripped down her neck from the circular wounds in her throat and chest, and Geralt cried, holding her in his arms and rocking her to sleep.

The present greeted him with moist breath and a wet nose. Roach whined, front legs in his lap in her best attempt at a hug. Trying to calm his breathing, Geralt hummed softly and focused on the texture of her fur, prickly against his fingertips as he ran his hand up her back against the grain.

“Everything alright?” Triss said, somehow by his side already.

Geralt didn’t look at her. “Hm.”

“You can take a break any time you need, it’s okay.”

He said nothing, instead taking the paintbrush from Renfri - he must have dropped it - and focusing back onto the shape and colour of the grapes hanging over the side of the bowl.

“Okay,” she said, gathering that Geralt wasn’t up to talking. Instead she turned to Jaskier. “Having fun?”

“Yes!” He said, smile wide. Geralt watched from the corner of his eye and relaxed slightly at the sight of his… neighbour in a better mood.

Triss patted the younger man gently on the shoulder and continued on her round of the room.

Geralt tried to concentrate on the task in front of him, he really did, but just like last week, a blue-eyed owl was perched next to him, taking up all his attention by simply sitting there and gawking.

“What?” He growled.

Jaskier swallowed audibly. “Are you okay?”

Geralt inhaled sharply through his nostrils and squeezed his eyes shut, but nothing seemed to calm the storm in his head. He turned to the other man and flicked his gaze over to whatever monstrosity he was creating on his easel.  
“Use another colour,” he said through gritted teeth.

Blue eyes blinked.

“…Right. Yes, of course. ‘Bout time I moved on! Yes…”

Shaky fingers screwed the lid back onto the red pot, and placed it gingerly at Jaskier’s feet, away from Geralt.

.

.

After class, and after most of the group had already filed out, splitting off towards the staircase or elevator, Geralt found Jaskier standing in the hallway picking at his fingernails.

“Someone might want to get through here.”

Jaskier didn’t meet his gaze, simply dropping his hands to his sides, balled into fists, and nodding sharply.

“You’re right. Yes. I’m sorry, I’ll - ”

Geralt grabbed his elbow as he turned away, bringing the man closer. At this new distance, he could see the quick and shallow breaths the younger man was gasping. Sliding his hand further down Jaskier’s arm, he felt the racing pulse at his wrist. His muscles were taught. This was a man in fight or flight mode, or, he feared, the much more dangerous ‘rabbit caught in headlights’.

Delicately, Geralt let go.

“Sorry for scaring you.”

“You didn’t!” Jaskier blurted, and Geralt believed him, because now he was making eye contact, and behind the fatigue and mysterious cocktail of fragile emotions painted across his face, Jaskier looked… open. He licked his lips and stroked at the area Geralt had just released, blinking away some of the fog.

“I…” Geralt began, but he lost his train of thought almost immediately. What was he supposed to say now? The guy was clearly in the middle of some sort of crisis, but they’d only met _twice_ , for Christ’s sake.

“Roach wants to know if you’re okay.”

Somehow, God willing, that wasn’t the worst thing he could have said, because Jaskier smiled. It was a wet, almost melancholy smile, but it bordered on a small _laugh_ and Geralt could feel something in his chest break apart and fit back together in a new place. It was odd. Not painful, but certainly uncomfortable. He felt like he might throw up, or suffocate, or both – either as a result of each other or simultaneously, he couldn’t work out which. But he found himself smiling back.

“That’s very sweet of Roach.” Jaskier’s tone had lightened somewhat. He was aware of Geralt’s poorly concealed charade, it would seem.

“Yeah, you know,” Geralt mumbled, “she cares like that.”

“She does,” Jaskier breathed. Geralt felt the exhale of a breath he hadn’t realised the other man was holding blow against his face. It smelt like coffee and spearmint.

“I’m fine,” the younger man announced surely, if not convincingly. “Just a rough day.”

“You look tired.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special!”

Geralt’s gaze was unyielding.

“Didn’t sleep all that well last night.”

“Why not?”

“How about you?” Jaskier almost shouted. “Are you? Okay?”

Having questions of welfare switched back onto you was not fun, Geralt realised.

“I told you. I’m fine.”

“Actually, you didn’t tell me. You just grunted at me to use another colour. And you were right, there was enough red, and I would have ruined it if I’d put any more on, so thank you for that, but it didn’t actually answer my question: ‘Are you okay?’ And I was willing to drop it while we were in that room full of people, but,” he took a much-needed breath, “we’re alone now.”

He was right. They were alone now. You could hear activity in the foyer from the balcony looking over the cavernous room below, but it was a quiet buzz – a hum in the background of their impromptu meeting. White noise.

“Rough day,” Geralt rumbled, wishing he would say more, and praying that Jaskier wouldn’t ask him to.

As if he could hear his thoughts, Jaskier nodded solemnly. 

Geralt looked down at Roach, who had been sitting patiently through this whole ordeal, and steeled himself to say goodbye, but was almost sent tumbling backwards when the weight of a near six-foot-tall man came catapulting into him.

“I’m uh,” the long arms currently wrapped around his waist drew tighter. “I’m not much of a hugger.”

“I figured,” came Jaskier’s voice, muffled against his chest, “but I am.”

It didn’t seem as though he would be set free anytime soon, so Geralt relented, wrapping an arm around the younger man’s shoulder.

He saw Triss tiptoe out of the studio smothering a smile. She mouthed a ‘goodbye’ in their direction and carried on her way.

Feeling the weight of Jaskier’s head against his shoulder, and the steady pressure of surprisingly strong arms around his middle, Geralt thought that maybe he _could_ become a hugger.

For certain people.

_Maybe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you so much to people who've already commented, you've helped me shape the story and work out what's important more than you realise. Please keep em coming!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Psyches and scribbles and Ciri's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha ha if you close your eyes you can't see me trying to fix my daddy issues by projecting on to Geralt and Ciri's relationship

“I’m worried that I’m not tactile enough with Ciri.”

Stregobor looked up from his notebook, blinking rapidly.

“In what way?”

Geralt shifted uncomfortably in his seat on the lumpy brown sofa. “Parents… do things. They… hug their kids. Kiss them sometimes.”

“And you don’t.”

“…No.”

“Well,” the doctor began, clearly taking his time to choose his words carefully, “given the history and nature of your relationship, I’d say that’s understandable.”

“Understandable doesn’t mean good,” Geralt bit back.

“No, it doesn’t,” Dr Stregobor replied, as even tempered as ever. It was infuriating, the way he never let his true reactions be seen. Geralt could tell when he was unimpressed, or disappointed, or surprised, but the old man was never honest about it. He never lifted the mask.

“Has Ciri mentioned feeling… deprived?”

Geralt tensed - that fucking word. Ciri didn’t _need_ to mention it. Her life was full of enough tragedy for anyone with a braincell to realise she’d been cheated out of everything a child should have – parents who loved her enough to fight through miscarriage after miscarriage and complication, a stable home with a grandmother who could accept help before it was too late for any of them, a decent and competent guardian who could provide even the smallest amount of open affection.

“No.”

“Then what has prompted this concern?”

“I want to be… better.”

“You will be.”

“When?” Geralt all but roared. Years of frustration he’d only been partially aware of were coming to a head, and he had nowhere to aim it but the nasty little man in front of him.

“You’re particularly volatile today, Geralt.” The old man’s voice was irritatingly level as he noted something down in his book. “Does this have something to do with your episode on Tuesday?”

Of course the fucker had heard about that. He had eyes and ears everywhere.

“I don’t know,” he seethed, but the strength was draining out of him.

“Was there anything that triggered it? It’s been a long time.”

His eyes strained in an attempt to not roll out of his head.

“The paint. It was red. Splattered.”

“You live in London, Geralt. You’ve seen splatters of paint before - probably every day.”

Geralt glared. Stregobor simply raised his eyebrows.

“S’different.”

“Had something made you more vulnerable? Do you remember any environmental factors? Anything that had happened on the way there? At home?”

“You fuckin’ love asking questions, don’t you?”

“It’s my job, Mr du Rivia.”

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek to prevent a further outburst of aggression. The numb ache took him back to the moment he’d seen Jaskier’s eyes, red and puffy and pained. He remembered the smile that had broken his heart more than any tears could. He remembered the soft yet steady pressure of Jaskier’s embrace.

“One of the other group members…” Geralt swallowed. “He seemed… upset.”

“And that upset you?”

Geralt didn’t say anything, just looked at his hands. Stregobor sighed.

“Geralt, you are a natural protector.” He frowned. “It’s a very admirable thing to be, but you let it consume you. You cannot protect others if you are endangering yourself.”

He looked up to see the doctor leaning forward, imploring something from him. He smiled tightly.

“I’m fine.”

Stregobor shut his notebook with a _snap_ and stood wearily.

“Then we’re done for the day.”

.

.

At home that afternoon, Geralt couldn’t shake the agitation coursing through his veins. It wasn’t focused on or caused by anything in particular, and that just made the whole ordeal worse, in his opinion. He couldn’t fix a problem and have the sick feeling go away. He just had to wait this out – ride the wave.

He took Roach for a walk. He worked out until he felt lightheaded and his muscles burned. He cleaned the fucking _oven_ , for God’s sake, but he still couldn’t shift the itch that ate at his skin.

He thought of calling Yennefer, but she was undoubtably working on something important and wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted by an old codger feeling antsy. Ciri wouldn’t be home for another few hours.

The sofa cushions gave way to Geralt’s massive frame as he plonked himself down, letting out an inappropriately long sigh. Fatigue. Frustration. Roach jumped up to meet him, curling up into a tight ball by his side. He stroked her slowly in an attempt to combat the speed at which his brain was racing. She reached up and licked at the juncture of his jaw and neck, and his brain sparked.

In a wild flurry of movement, Geralt grabbed at an old envelope on the coffee table. He found a worn-out biro down the side of the couch, end chewed beyond recognition, and began frantically scribbling.

What emerged from the chaos was a whirlpool. It was all blue, because the pen was, but the image formulating in Geralt’s mind included ragged red rocks and twisted vines all leading to the epicentre – a wild and bottomless tunnel of water. Geralt continued to drag the near empty pen across the paper in loose circles. Where they interwove, the water was deeper, more menacing. From where the lines parted again came crashing waves and sea foam.

The turmoil in his head poured onto the page, filling the once blank sheet with sensation and intensity, until the cheap material his energy company sent all their bills in finally gave way and left a gaping hole in the centre of Geralt’s maelstrom.

He sat back from where he’d been hunkered over and stretched, muscles still tight and sore from his previous attempt at achieving calm. With this change in perspective, came an alarming realisation. Geralt hadn’t drawn a whirlpool. He’d drawn an eye - a bloodshot, turbulent, blue eye.

He shoved his head into his hands and let out a visceral, _“Fuck.”_

.

.

Ciri got home at four, letting out a high pitched “Yoo-hoo!” in greeting as she shut the door behind her.

Roach didn’t race to greet her.

The house was quiet.

“Hello?”

She kicked off her shoes and hung up her coat.

“Dad?”

A grunt came from the living room, so she followed the sound. On the couch lay her brick of a godfather, long white hair hanging over the couch’s armrest like an avalanche. Roach looked up when she entered the room, but didn’t move from her spot lying on the man’s chest.

Ciri paused, unsure of what to do. She seen Geralt in various states of unease, even distress. They’d helped each other through their fair share of emotional collapses. It didn’t make it any easier.

“Are you okay?”

Pale brown eyes shifted their focus from the ceiling to the doorway. Geralt sighed, long and deep. The rise of his ribcage lifted Roach an inch into the air, and Ciri smiled. Her father was unbelievably powerful, but still managed to be the softest person she’d ever met. A tank made of fairy floss.

She walked over to sit by his head, socked feet padding soundlessly across the floorboards. As she sat on the floor with a dramatic _plop_ , Geralt’s hand found its way into her hair, running his fingers through the long waves.

If Ciri hadn’t yet been sure that something was wrong, she certainly was now.

“You look exactly like your mother,” Geralt whispered. “It’s frightening.”

She frowned. It was no secret that the resemblance was uncanny. Ciri had gazed in wonder at the various photographs of her parents hanging around the house for as long as she could remember, probably longer, and had noticed at a young age the likeness they shared. It was nice – a way of feeling like you knew people you’d never met.

“I’m sorry she couldn’t be here for you.”

Ciri smiled again, melancholic this time.  
“Yeah, but I have you!” She nudged him gently.

Geralt huffed out a laugh. “It’s not the same, though, is it?”

“Lots of kids live in single parent households.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though. You deserve a big, happy, normal family… You deserve…” He sighed again. “So much more than this.”

“I don’t need _more_ , Dad,” Ciri said, rolling her eyes at his dramatics, “I have you!”

“I’m not your dad, Cirilla.”

“Yes, you _are!”_ She cried, the tears welling in her eyes as much due to the tone in which her father had said those words as the words themselves. He sounded so tired and small, like he’d given up on the life she knew he’d worked so hard to build for her.

“You might not be, biologically, and you might not have always been here, but you _tried_. And you’re here _now_.”

She was standing, somehow, ferocious energy pulling her to her feet. Her lip trembled and her eyes stung, but she was _angry_ \- angry at Geralt for saying such a stupid thing, angry at the world for leaving them in this mess, angry at whatever demon in his head had led them here.

“You’re the only father I’ve ever had, so don’t you fucking _dare_ say shit like that!”

“Ciri, I - ”

“I never cared about some stupid picture on the wall of a man I can’t remember. I cared about _you!_ _You_ were who I cried about when it wasn’t safe for you to skype us, when the people on the news would report such _horrible_ things and we hadn’t heard from you so we didn’t know if you were okay and I was so _scared_ that my _dad_ was hurt! Or worse!”

Water was flowing on both sides of the conversation now. Geralt had sat up, and while the set of his shoulders remained as stoic as ever, his cheeks were wet and shiny.

“I never wanted a ‘normal’ family. I never knew what one of those was! I just wanted you home and safe and _here_ , and I have that now, so just…” Her whole body shook, filled with adrenaline and rage and pure _grief_. “Shut up!”

Ciri turned to storm out of the room. She was done. She just wanted to wrap herself into a blanket burrito and eat the chocolate she’d hidden under the bed last week and maybe – probably – cry some more.

But Geralt’s strong, callused hand stopped her.

“Please let go of my hand,” she said, voice wavering in a way she’d be embarrassed about if she had the emotional energy.

To Geralt’s credit, he did as she asked. Their fingers unlinked, and Ciri’s arm fell to her side, but she couldn’t move. Her legs were jelly and her vision was blurred. The lump in her throat had grown thorns and was ripping her insides to shreds.

She heard the soft thudding of Geralt’s mass circle around her to meet her gaze. He took her gently by the shoulders, and she didn’t flinch away.

“One day I’ll deserve you,” he said.

She laughed out a sob. “I’m not something you need to earn. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

The corners of Geralt’s mouth turned up, and Ciri had never been so happy to see such a tiny gesture.

“Always have been.”

Then, something happened that Cirilla Riannon never expected. Her father, the man who had closed himself off to the world, who felt so deeply that the only way to navigate life was to cut emotion out entirely, pulled her into a hug. It was stiff, and a little awkward, but the body enveloping her felt so familiar. She breathed in deeply, inhaling his warmth and masculine tang, and hugged back.

Geralt’s knees buckled. They sank to the floor together, Geralt pulling his daughter into his lap and rocking her gently, finding a long-needed solace as her breathing evened out.

“Why did you say that?”

“I…” He paused as he felt her start twirling locks of his hair around her fingers. “I never thought I was cut out for this. Didn’t think I’d ever need to be.” He stroked her hair as he grappled with the words he’d been terrified of acknowledging for over a decade. “I always thought you would’ve preferred someone different, someone like…”

“Yen?”

“Hm.”

She huffed. “Yen’s fun, but I can’t imagine her actually being responsible for another human.”

Geralt let out a low laugh. “I guess you’re right.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Ciri’s exhausted brain truly caught up with the conversation.

“Why the hell wouldn’t I ‘want’ you?”

The hum her father let out reverberated through her body. It tickled.

“Don’t see a lot of fathers like me, do you?”

“What? Super cool and awesome?”

This time, Geralt’s laugh was loud and free.

“I was thinking more ‘scarred up and scary’.”

“You’re not scary,” Ciri giggled. “You feed Roach twice as much as she needs because you can’t handle the needy look in her eye that you imagine - ”

“She looks sad.”

“No, she doesn’t!”

Geralt grouched under her chastising but didn’t dispute it again.

“You shouldn’t need to reassure me,” he sighed. “That’s not how this is supposed to work.”

“You’re the best dad I could ever ask for,” Ciri whispered as her eyes fluttered shut, head laying on Geralt’s strong chest. “Not given the circumstances, not under any conditions – period.”

“Point blank.”

“Full stop.”

“End of story.”

“Finito!”

Geralt’s laugh disrupted Ciri’s comfortable spot on his knee, jiggling her slightly.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Ciri smiled. She knew what he was saying. She knew he wouldn’t say it. And she knew he didn’t have to. “I love you too.”

The man curled around her, resting his head gently on her shoulder. They sat like that for a moment, adjusting to whatever shift had just occurred.

Roach decided that she needed to join in on the action, pushing them apart to lie across their joined laps.

Now, with the touching scene over and done with thanks to the dog’s antics, Geralt’s pinched expression returned.

“What?”

“Sweet daughter of mine? Princess? Light of my life?”

_“…What?”_

“Your boney arse has sent my legs to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Jaskier this time, sowwy :(
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! The response to this has been overwhelmingly positive and emotional, so thank you so much to everyone interacting i love you.  
> Keep the comments coming! It really helps me work out what needs to be explored more and what you guys like, and oh i live to please
> 
> Til next time! x


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a small time skip, and plans are made!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt so bad about everything being so angsty recently dfghjkl so he's a nice soft chapter up early uwu

Autumn had made itself very comfortable. Leaves littered the streets, forming an orange canvas for the shadows of skeletal trees to fall upon, and a distinct chill in the air turned Roach’s puffing breath into a fog.

Walking towards the Temeria Institute, Geralt spotted a bright yellow parka twirling its way along the footpath, stark against the grey London background. Roach perked up immediately, and he knew it wasn’t just because of the leaves being kicked up as the person wandered towards them.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called out, and he jogged over to meet them, careful to keep the contents of his travel mug level.

Geralt nodded a welcome and held the door open, allowing the younger man to enter before him.

Renfri wasn’t waiting by the water cooler as usual, but with Jaskier powering ahead and yattering about what his landlord’s cat had done this week to spite him, Geralt didn’t stop.

“We should send Roach after the bastard,” Jaskier said as the elevator shuddered to life and began rising.

“Roach doesn’t chase other animals.”

Jaskier pouted. “Pity.”

“I thought you liked cats,” Geralt said as the doors opened and they stepped out into the hallway. He remembered a session they’d done recently where the man had gotten so caught up looking at cat pictures in the magazine he’d been given, cooing and pointing out the ones he’d take home (all of them), and giving them all funny names like Pineapples (pronounced like Minneapolis) and Matthew Gay Goober, he’d barely made a start on his collage before it was time to clean up.

“I do _usually_ ,” he said. “But not this one.” His eyes narrowed as he looked into the middle distance - picturing the animal in question, Geralt assumed.

“Not even Roach would like this beast,” he seethed.

Geralt snorted. As they entered the studio, a few patrons lifted their heads and waved, but most kept to themselves.

“Strong words.”

“I have strong feelings!” Jaskier declared, and Geralt was hardly going to disagree.

There hadn’t been another incident since the second week, but it was clear that the younger man experienced the world very intensely. He grew frustrated with his art frequently, often restarting multiple times in one session. Sometimes he would abandon his projects all together, spending the next couple of hours talking to Geralt about whatever crossed his mind. Triss didn’t seem to mind when this happened, and Geralt found that he actually quite enjoyed having a narrator by his side. Sometimes, though, after navigating bussling streets full of car horns and screaming toddlers, he needed quiet, and he’d tell Jaskier as much (perhaps a little gruffly… He was working on that.)

Jaskier would then move on to another group member, prattling on about this or that, until Geralt realised that he was spending more time watching his friend gesture animatedly as he told a story than he was folding his origami frog. He’d then call the man over under the guise of relieving the other person of Jaskier’s incessant talking, but it always felt better to have him back by his side.

Geralt had started calling Jaskier his friend, in his head at least, the day after he’d hugged Ciri. He had come to the conclusion after much mulling and pondering, done while staring at the incredibly incriminating eye/whirlpool envelope. If his mind had turned to Jaskier during a time of crisis, that had to mean something. Somewhere, deep in his gut, a feeling knocked about, trying to tell him that there were many words other than ‘friend’ he could apply to this situation, but he squashed it down and drowned it out. There was enough going on in his head already.

The waft of a familiar sweet scent interrupted anything more his brain had to say when Jaskier took the lid off his drink.

“Pumpkin spice?”

The man hummed as he took a sip of the steaming drink, a thin line of foam remaining along his upper lip when he lowered the cup. Geralt wanted to wipe it off. A quick pink tongue made easy work of it though, and that was a satisfactory compromise.

“Didn’t take you to be a Starbucks fanatic, let alone someone who drinks their embarrassing seasonal recipes.”

“I’m not.” Geralt didn’t drink coffee. It unraveled his already frayed nerves far too much. “Ciri does.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, his hand pausing in midair. “Am I supposed to know who Ciri is?”

Before Geralt could explain that no, he hadn’t missed any vital information and Geralt was just a cagey bugger, the guy had spiraled off onto a panicked tangent.

“I’m so sorry, I’m _so_ bad with names. And that’s not an excuse, I _know_ that’s not an excuse. And I promise I do listen to the things you tell me, I love our conversations, it’s just sometimes my _stupid brain_ \- ”

“Jaskier - ”

“Stuff just goes in one ear, out the other, y’know? And, God, this is mortifying! Please don’t think I don’t care about you, or don’t listen to you, or _purposefully_ forget things. I promise I don’t. I – ”

“ _Jaskier!”_

The younger man’s mouth shut mid-word as he watched Geralt owlishly.

“She’s my daughter,” he said, feeling a soft, uncontrollable smile pull at his mouth.

Jaskier gaped, mouth opening and closing like the goldfish Ciri had kept for a week when she was eight, before they found it floating sadly at the top of the fishbowl one morning. She’d insisted they bury it outside by the roses. Geralt had a sneaking suspicion Roach had dug it up and eaten it the second the little girl’s back was turned.

“You have a _DAUGHTER?_ God, I’m so sorry, Geralt. _Fuck!_ I’ve been such a terrible fr- I’ve been so terrible. I’m so sorry!”

Jaskier looked close to tears, but Geralt was stuck on how the man had fumbled over a word.

Was he going to say ‘friend’?

But he hadn’t. He’d changed his mind.

Were they not friends?

That would be… a shame.

He placed a hand, awkwardly, on Jaskier’s shoulder in an attempt to calm the flustered man. It seemed to work to a certain degree, although that may also have been Roach’s influence as she lay a paw in his lap for him to hold.

“I hadn’t mentioned her before.”

Geralt had meant for this to be comforting, but it appeared to have the opposite effect.

“Why didn’t you mention her?”

“I’m…”

What was Geralt supposed to say?

_“I’m overly private about my loved ones because I’m paranoid that if I tell someone too much they’ll decide I’m not good enough or get bored and leave us after we’ve grown attached, and I don’t want the people I care about to experience that, so I’ve decided it’s easier to avoid any form of intimacy than worry about every relationship that develops.”_

No. He couldn’t unload all that.

“I’m mentioning her now.”

Jaskier massaged the pads of Roach’s paw, and Geralt thought quietly that she was probably enjoying it more than Jaskier was.

“Yes. You are.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no!” He waved Geralt’s remorse away like a mosquito on a summer evening. “We’ve known each other, what? A month and a half? We see each other once a week, why would I know everything about you? Silly of me…”

Geralt frowned. “You’re not silly.”

Triss started up the session before Jaskier could reply.

.

.

The pair dried their hands after washing off the remnants of the air-dry clay they’d been working with today, purveying their work. Jaskier had sculpted a sunflower that somehow defied all the laws of physics and stood high and mighty despite its clearly uneven weight distribution. Next to it lay Geralt’s modest plaque, in which he’d carved the scene of a wolf howling at the moon.

Triss had told them that next week they’d be painting them.

“I imagine you’ll be taking Ciri trick-or-treating this weekend, then?”

Jaskier leaned down and tried to brush of the powder he’d left on Roach after patting her with hands still covered in clay-dust. Geralt hoped it didn’t rain on the way home, or cleaning her would be an even bigger pain in the ass.

He snorted. “Pretty sure she’d hate that.”

“What?” Jaskier cried incredulously. “Kids love Halloween!”

“She’s fourteen, Jaskier.”

Once again, it looked like those blue eyes were going to pop out of their sockets.

“Your daughter is _fourteen?”_

Geralt nodded as he clipped Roach’s leash onto her harness.

“Geralt,” the younger man began, as he followed him through the double doors into the hall, “please don’t take this the wrong way, because I do mean it as a compliment, but how old _are_ you?”

He stopped and turned to his enquirer, raising an eyebrow snidely. Unlike every other time he’d done this, however, when the culprit had cowered and pardoned themselves desperately, Jaskier just continued to look on expectantly.

“I’m thirty-seven,” Geralt said, continuing to walk to the elevator.

“Oh.”

“Hm.”

“Had her young, then?”

He forced a laugh. “Someone did.”

The little furrow in Jaskier’s brow that appeared occasionally, deepened. Geralt had narrowed the emotions that triggered this to a small number: confusion, frustration, and distress. There was, as far as he had worked out, a thirty-three percent chance that he’d distressed his friend with that answer – or lack of one – and the thought sat in his stomach like a dumbbell.

“She’s my god daughter, technically,” he explained.

“Oh. Poor girl,” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt frowned at him as they entered the elevator, tempted to close the doors prematurely on the bastard.

“That she’s lived through a situation that’s caused a, uh, a usually… ceremonial relationship to become legal,” the man babbled as he hopped in quickly, like he’d read Geralt’s mind. “Not that she has you as a father! You seem like a great dad! Roach loves you! God, I’m going to stop talking now.”

“…Hm,” Geralt replied.

The elevator ding-ed and the doors opened onto the foyer. They walked in an awkward silence to the exit, Jaskier mumbling a strained “Goodbye,” when they reached the street.

“Thanks,” Geralt forced out before he lost the other man to the London crowd.

Jaskier turned back to him, bewildered.

“For saying I’m a good dad,” he continued. “A lot of people didn’t think so. Still don’t. Sometimes it feels like they were r - ”

“Wrong,” Jaskier interrupted, voice stronger than before. “They were wrong.”

“You’ve,” Geralt stuttered, “you’ve never even met her.”

A bright smile illuminated the street like a beacon, despite the dark clouds hanging overhead.

“I don’t need to. I can see how proud of her you are.”

The previously sparkling blue eyes dulled a little as Jaskier’s grin faltered for some reason.

“She’s lucky to have you.”

Geralt kicked at a loose stone on the ground, overwhelmed by such direct praise.

“S’ the other way ‘round.”

“It’s both ways round.”

Geralt’s head snapped up to meet a surprisingly assertive gaze. Jaskier’s cheeks were rosy from the chill in the air, and his eyes watered from the wind blowing down the road. Blinking away his tears, he smiled apologetically, like he was embarrassed at his sudden outburst.

“What are you doing for Halloween?” Geralt asked, unsure of why he even wanted to know.

Jaskier shrugged. “Probably just staying home. Get a little drunk. Watch a movie.”

“Alone?”

He shrugged again; defeated posture more obvious this time.

“Ciri’s going to a sleep over,” Geralt announced for reasons he didn’t entirely understand, “so I’ll be alone… too.”

“Oh.”

A quiet passed over the two men as they both became aware of what was being offered.

“That would be nice.”

Jaskier’s face was almost completely red now, bitten by the cold breeze.

“Give me your phone, I’ll put my details in,” Geralt said, walking closer. “You need to get home, you’re freezing.”

“Oh, no, I’m,” Jaskier shook his head stubbornly, “I’m fine!”

“Yeah,” Geralt laughed. “Aren’t we all?”

.

.

When Ciri had gotten home and heard the news, she'd been inconsolable.

“I’m not even going to be here!” She wailed.

“There’ll be other times,” Geralt said, desperate for the teenager to calm down.

“So, this is a thing now? You have a friend that comes over?” Her face lit up. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so proud of you!”

Geralt rolled his eyes as he opened his arms, welcoming the small body barreling towards him.

“Christ,” he wheezed as she headbutted him in the diaphragm.

Yennefer raised her eyebrows playfully and sipped her coffee, sitting, poised, in an armchair and watching the scene play out.

“Go do your homework, please,” Geralt said, simultaneously sending a murderous look towards the lawyer. It did not have the desired effect.

“Can you get him to come earlier, before I leave? I want to meet him _so bad_!”

“If I say yes will you go to your room?”

“Maybe.”

Geralt huffed. “Fine!”

Ciri practically squealed as she ran upstairs, thumbs already moving quickly across her phone’s touch screen, undoubtably texting something embarrassing about him to her friends.

“So,” Yennefer said, placing her mug on a coaster and leaning back into her seat, arms folded menacingly, “do I need to give this guy the once over before Saturday comes around, or what?”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“He just didn’t want to be alone on Halloween. I felt bad for the guy.”

Even he could smell the bullshit permeating from him as he tried to convince Yen of… What, exactly? And why? Geralt didn’t know.

“We’re gonna have a drink and watch a movie. She’s just being dramatic,” he said, looking towards the staircase.

“You can hardly blame her,” Yen rebutted. “It’s been twelve years since we were together, and how many people have you kissed since then? Even given a serious passing glance to? You could count them on your fat little fingers, I’m sure.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

And that was true, because there hadn’t really been… anyone. Being thrust into fatherhood whilst stuck in a war-torn country, only to come home and be diagnosed with more mental disorders than he’d known existed, had taken up most of Geralt’s attention.

That’s what he’d continued to tell himself – when he’d gotten Roach and finally started sleeping through the night, when the nightmares had gone away, when his scars stopped aching, when Ciri started high school.

_“I’ve been busy.”_

He was probably the best he was ever going to be. He was certainly the best he’s ever _been_.

But something still held him back, still stopped him in his tracks every time his mind wandered into the forbidden jungle of craving a warm body or a soft touch.

He was so scared of messing it up, so scared of being left alone. Again.

Ciri’s excitement only made it harder. When it all went tits up, how would she react? She was so quick to love and trust. Where would that leave her?

“Geralt?” Yennefer said, rising up to meet him where he’d been paralysed. “Not to shatter my ‘cold bitch’ illusion, but,” she held a hand to his cheek, and for a short moment the ever-present ache in his chest lessened. “I’m really proud of you.”

“’M just… taking pity,” he mumbled.

She held back a laugh as she tucked a stray strand of white hair behind his ear.

“Well, make sure you use protection if you haven’t discussed pity-monogamy.” 

Geralt felt his cheeks warm to a shade close to beetroot red as he decidedly did _not_ watch his ex-girlfriend-now-best-friend put on her coat and call out a goodbye to his daughter, smirking infuriatingly the entire time.

“Have fun!”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Her laughter was musical as it faded away down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said it before and I'll say it again  
> The response to this fic has been overwhelming. thank you to everyone who reads it and says such lovely things!! I'm actually considering rewriting this as a novel when it's all over asdfghjk this story is taking over my life


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT'S NOT A DATE (it's a date)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hngggggggg hello everyone!  
> this chapter kicked my ass, and would absolutely not exist without the wonderful playlists made to go with it by Eman (@feraljaskier on twitter) thank you so much my love <333  
> Geralt's playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/737dsZexNoGaLjiEqqsw3X  
> Jaskier's playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1fFaCiHQ55jiwfdbg6d0Rc

Jaskier was due to arrive in half an hour, and the house was a mess.

Ciri’s homework was still strewn across the dining room table after their last-ditch attempt to understand algebra before she left to have fun with her friends. The dishes from breakfast were still stewing in the sink. Geralt hadn’t vacuumed in a week. It was all falling apart.

“Dad, it’s fine,” Ciri said, seeing him frantically running around trying to tidy. “Look, I’ll take my stuff upstairs, you deal with the kitchen, Roach can stand guard. It’s _fine._ ”

Geralt paused as he picked up a sweater Ciri had left on the couch. He nodded.

.

.

Jaskier was fifteen minutes late. They didn’t have anything else to do, now. The house was as nice as it was going to get, save for a deep clean and renovation. Roach had been fed. Someone’s mum was picking Ciri up soon.

Geralt checked his phone.

Nothing.

He fought the urge to bounce his leg, and Roach snuffled at his feet.

“Now, listen,” Ciri announced, marching into the living room and striking a classic drill sergeant pose. No one in the army actually stood like that, but movies loved the stereotype and Geralt wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to enlighten her on the minor details of life in the barracks. 

“Make sure you offer him food and drink at regular intervals. Just because he said no once, doesn’t mean he’ll say it half an hour later.”

“Ciri…”

“Make sure he doesn’t get cold. Have a blanket or jacket nearby.”

“I’ve never done this to you, why are you - ”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what _is_ the point?”

Geralt was saved from the continuation of her tirade by a meek knock at the door.

Ciri’s eyes goggled as she whispered, “Is that him?”

Geralt rolled his eyes and ruffled her hair as he walked to the door.

“Why don’t we see?”

Standing on the porch was a nervous Jaskier. His hair was windswept, and his coat was zipped all the way up to his chin, framing his pink cheeks adorably. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Stepping aside to let his guest in, Geralt spied his daughter watching like a hawk from the doorway to the living room. He tried to shoo her away, but she stood steadfast, animatedly mouthing something he didn’t understand. Before he could silently threaten her with a week without chocolate or internet or something equally unintimidating, Jaskier had turned back from hanging up his coat and was watching them, bemused.

Ciri noticed their audience at about the same time.

“Hi,” she said mildly, all obstinate attitude having vanished into thin air.

Jaskier grinned. “You must be Ciri!”

“Yeah! And you’re Jaskier! I’ve heard so much about you!”

Clearly, the paper-thin ice had been broken, and she wasn’t feeling so shy anymore.

Jaskier looked quizzically at Geralt.

“Have you?”

Geralt wanted the ground to swallow him up. He’d expected some form of chatter when the two finally met. Talking was all Jaskier ever seemed to do, and Ciri was an extremely inquisitive young woman – she thrived in getting to know people.

He hadn’t expected, or rather, had hoped to avoid, becoming the topic of conversation quite so quickly. It made sense. It was the only thing they had in common at the moment.

It didn’t make it any more pleasant.

“All good things, I hope,” Jaskier teased as he was led further into the house by the teenager. Geralt was left trailing behind.

Ciri laughed. “Anyone who makes it through the front door must be pretty special.”

She leaned closer and ‘whispered’ loud enough for the whole room to hear, “He doesn’t have many friends over.”

“When’s Sammie picking you up, sweetheart?” Geralt asked, overly saccharine.

“Soon,” she replied, exasperated that her lame father would dare interrupt her talking to this much more interesting _new_ person.

“Go get ready then.”

“But - ”

“Shoes, bag, go on!”

She let out a groan that lasted til the top of the stairs, and Geralt only deemed himself safe when he heard her bedroom door close.

He turned to Jaskier, fully preparing to apologise and make himself look less like a reclusive hermit, but the man’s face was glowing with a smile wider than he’d ever seen.

“Impressive lung capacity!”

Geralt sighed. “She’s certainly got that going for her.”

“She’s so different to how I imagined.”

Geralt frowned. “What do you m - ”

“Okay, I’m leaving!” Ciri called as she ran down the stairs, Ugg boots on and bag packed.

Headlights flashed through the bay windows as a car pulled in.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” She asked, turning to Jaskier with a far too hopeful look in her eye.

“What?”

“Are you staying the night?”

Jaskier turned bright red and started blathering meaninglessly, and Geralt wanted to cease existing for a little while.

Ciri looked at them oddly before racing out the door, leaving Geralt to clean up the mess she’d made.

“Uh…”

“Your house is lovely!”

Jaskier’s smile was pulling a little too tightly at the edges, but Geralt was willing to latch on to any lifeline that saved them from this awkward wreckage.

“Thanks, it’s uh… Technically it’s Ciri’s… Her grandmother left it to her,” he explained after seeing Jaskier’s furrowed brow returning.

“Wow…”

“Yeah. Uh, can I get you anything? Drink?”

“Oo, actually, I brought this!” Jaskier said, retrieving a bottle from the backpack he’d been clutching at his side. “Bailey’s.”

“Strawberries and cream.”

“It’s very good with hot chocolate.”

Geralt had never heard of such a thing, but he was willing to give it a go.

.

.

The three of them (Geralt, Jaskier, and a sleepy Roach) curled up on the couch, mugs of hard cocoa in hand. Geralt opened up Netflix, only to realise he had no idea what sort of film he was looking for. He glanced at the man taking a long sip from his cup, looking for some impossibly hidden clue in his face.

“When I was a kid,” Jaskier said on cue, “we’d always watch The Nightmare Before Christmas. Dad wouldn’t let us dress up, so my sisters and I would hide in the den and put lots of eyeliner on and switch all the lights off.”

His eyes were wide and conspiratory, his voice teetering on a loud whisper, like he was letting Geralt in on some world ending secret.

“What pictures of mischief you were,” Geralt said, monotone as ever.

“For us, back then, yes, we were,” Jaskier said in a such a matter-of-fact way that it jolted Geralt into realizing that he actually knew very little of his friend’s life. From the sounds of it, it didn’t start out all that nicely.

“Nightmare Before Christmas is a Christmas movie.”

Jaskier almost spit out his drink, coughing and gulping loudly before turning with a look of horror.

“It is not!”

“It is!”

“It’s set in _Halloween Town!_ ”

“And Christmas Town!”

“There’s a kidnapping!”

“Of _Santa Claus!”_

Jaskier huffed. “What the hell kind of Christmases did you have as a child?”

“Shit ones.”

He cleared his throat in an attempt to ignore the softening in Jaskier’s eyes. He was here to watch a movie, not unpack all of Geralt’s childhood trauma.

“Corpse Bride?”

Jaskier nodded seriously.

“Sufficiently creepy.”

“You don’t _actually_ think Nightmare Before Christmas is creepy, do you?”

“Play the movie, Geralt!”

.

.

A few tainted hot chocolates, some greasy pizza, and a Tim Burton film later, Jaskier had spread himself across the length of the couch, socked feet laying comfortably in Geralt’s lap as he lamented the events of the movie.

“Emily deserved better!”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed noncommitedly.

“Her story was so sad! She just wanted love, and she never even got it! The whole thing was so unfair!”

He folded his arms and pouted like a petulant child, a look that became increasingly funny when considering how _long_ the man was, and Geralt was reminded of all the times he’d told Ciri she couldn’t have sweets before dinner.

The man looked so at home in these surroundings, while also standing out distinctly. His colourful mismatched socks brightened the room, but his blue sweater toned in perfectly with the grey upholstery he was lying on. It was odd for Geralt to see someone new in his home – it happened so rarely, Ciri was right about that – but watching Jaskier stretch his long arms over his head, it didn’t feel wrong.

Whether it was the alcohol, or the late hour, or the foundations of his walls beginning to crumble, Geralt smiled fondly and placed a hand over Jaskier’s slender ankle.

“She found peace, Jas,” he said, rubbing a thumb softly along the arch of his foot. “That’s all any of us can hope for, isn’t it?”

It was Jaskier’s turn to hum vaguely, wiggling his toes and smothering a toothy smile.

“It tickles.”

Geralt pulled away. “Sorry.”

“No!” Jaskier whined, sitting up to grab Geralt’s retreating hand. “I like it.”

His fingers were warm around Geralt’s wrist, and as they slid down along his palm, he felt a sudden flush of… something.

His brain was a little hazy, but he knew what the look Jaskier was sending him from under his long eyelashes meant. He was out of practice, but he hadn’t forgotten it all. This wasn’t his first rodeo by any means.

The younger man quirked an eyebrow, and Geralt realised that his mouth had dropped open sometime in the last minute. He quickly snapped it shut, face heating up.

He couldn’t look away from the sly smile that spread across Jaskier’s face.

“Let’s play twenty questions.”

Geralt laughed. He didn’t _giggle_. He _laughed,_ like a self-respecting grown man does. _Jaskier_ giggled, but something about it was zealous in a way that caused butterflies to sprout inside Geralt’s belly.

“I thought Ciri was the one at the teen sleepover.”

“Where were you born?” Jaskier asked, ignoring Geralt’s quip and sitting back, cross-legged, against the arm of the sofa. Geralt ignored the sense of mourning his fuzzy mind produced at the loss of contact.

“Cornwall,” he answered. “Do you have any pets?”

Jaskier squinted discerningly. “Can I claim Roach?”

Geralt smirked. “No.”

The brunette sighed dramatically. “Then _no,_ I don’t.”

Roach, stretched out at their feet, twitched as she dreamt, laying on her back with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.

Watching her, Jaskier’s eyes glinted menacingly.

“Do you sleep naked?”

Geralt almost choked on his own spit, but for some reason the answer came out anyway.

“Sometimes.”

Jaskier’s jaw went slightly slack, his eyes losing focus as they skimmed over Geralt’s black-clad body. He took this moment to regain some form of composure. He felt unbelievably hot.

Maybe he should turn the heating down.

“Do you – um – do you still wear eyeliner?”

Brought back to the juvenile game he’d started, Jaskier smiled shyly.

“Sometimes.”

“I’d love to see it.”

And he meant it. The man’s eyes were a beautiful cornflower blue, clear and bright. Geralt could only imagine the impact they’d have, framed by coal. They’d be bewitching.

As he lost himself in Jaskier’s mesmerizing gaze, he noticed the corners relax, creating a rounder, almost sadder, shape. Something in his mind had shifted.

“Why were your Christmases so bad?”

Ah.

“They weren’t, really,” Geralt began, trying to buy some time to figure himself out. “Vesemir, he was my foster carer, he did his best and we all appreciated it, but dealing with three troubled boys was a lot for him. I didn’t really realise _how much_ until I started taking care of Ciri. I can’t imagine dealing with three of her, and she’s an angel… most of the time.”

“You were a foster kid?”

This was the part that Geralt hated about getting to know people. They inevitably found out about his tragic childhood, and would never be able to look at him without some hint of pity masked as sympathy in their eyes ever again.

“Yeah. Nine years alongside Eskel and Lambert.”

“Do you still see them?”

“Rarely.” Geralt picked at the long sleeve of his t-shirt, desperate to escape from the personal questioning. “We still all spend Christmas together.”

Jaskier took his hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing.

“That’s nice,” he said, voice soft but relatively casual for the situation. “Must’ve been hard, but at least you had each other.”

“Hm.”

The smaller man pulled away, and Geralt didn’t resist, despite how badly he wanted to.

“Sorry. I don’t know what I expected from that. But, um,” Jaskier tucked his knees to his chest and rocked slightly, “you can ask me something now. If you want.”

Geralt sat for a moment, unsure.

“Why didn’t your father let you dress up?”

Jaskier laughed, bitter and brittle. It was a sound Geralt knew all too well, and it hurt him to hear it coming from the man beside him.

“Mr Panktratz is a very serious man. He didn’t get where he is today by faffing around, and neither will his children!” Jaskier said, clearly impersonating the old man, speaking in a deep voice and posh accent. “Yeah. Wasn’t really one for a game of catch, was our Dad.”

The room felt sullen. Roach yipped in her sleep, making Geralt jump.

Jaskier chuckled, shuffling closer to his side. His eyes flicked up to the older man’s face before he leant over.

“How often do you work out?” He asked, hand glancing over one of Geralt’s bulging biceps.

“Every day,” Geralt answered, watching as Jaskier’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. They were almost close enough to feel each other’s breath. As it was, Geralt imagined the ghost of it puff against his cheek.

“Do you sing in the shower?”

“Of course, I do!” Jaskier laughed. “Who doesn’t?”

“I don’t,” Geralt smirked.

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Of course, you don’t.”

His hand was still placed on Geralt’s arm, presence so searing he could barely concentrate on anything else. It gripped tighter as Jaskier considered his next question, and Geralt had to hold in an embarrassing gasp.

“This is nice,” Jaskier said, surveying Geralt’s face but missing his eyes, never quite making contact. “Getting to know each other.”

Geralt placed a finger under his chin, forcing their gazes to meet.

“It’s your turn to ask the question, Jaskier.”

This time, he definitely did feel the air escape the other man’s lungs. It smelled sweet, of chocolate and artificial strawberry, and slightly alcoholic. Geralt wanted to chase the scent to its source.

“I think you know what I’m going to ask.”

“No, I don’t.”

Jaskier huffed, submitting Geralt to the intoxicating cocktail once more.

The brunette shifted, turning to face him more. He looked flighty and nervous, switching between biting and licking his lips in a maddening display of uncertainty.

“Do you… like…” Geralt twisted to give him his full attention, face to face. “…Men?” Jaskier said, quiet as a whisper, like he was scared that if he said it too loud, Geralt might spook, might pack up and run away or kick him out or, heaven forbid, break the tension that they’d spent so long building.

Geralt placed a calloused hand over Jaskier’s cheek, and felt stubble scratch his palm as the younger man leaned into his touch.

“Do you?”

Jaskier frowned. “I asked you first,” he said.

Geralt laughed.

“Yes, you did.”

And now, they were close enough that he couldn’t tell where his breath ended and Jaskier’s began. It wasn’t of much consequence, if any of their newly made plans were to come to fruition. A delicate hand came up to meet his, fingers wrapping around his wrist once more. The other one, he saw, held the back of the sofa in a death grip.

He noticed the pads of the smaller man’s fingers were rough – an insight into his life that would need to be explored at a later date.

Geralt had expected, when the time finally came to pursue romance once again, to be a nervous wreck. He’d expected to be all shaking hands and embarrassing faux pas – to not know what to do with his arms, where to put his feet - to chicken out. When he’d imagined the moment in his mind, late at night when his self-loathing was at its strongest and most cruel, he’d had a million thoughts rushing around his head making it impossible to focus, to enjoy the moment, to _see_ the person in front of him.

But as wide blue eyes stared back into his, he found that the world was quiet, truly peaceful, for the first time in a long time. All he could sense was sugar, and stubble, the beltloop of the sinfully skinny jeans Jaskier had arrived in, the soft chestnut hair that curled at the nape of the man’s neck, the persistent pounding of blood in his ears as the moment drew out and grew ever closer.

Geralt felt certainty. He knew what he wanted.

He knew he could get it.

There was a pounding knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> straight up i don't think anyone's ever finished a game of 20 questions not even for smutty reasons 20 is just a lot of questions


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's someone at the door...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is super chill and light and fluffy!!!! (it's not stay safe out there kids)

Geralt fully aimed to ignore the interruption, leaning further forward, but Jaskier had other plans, head whipping towards the front door.

“Who’s that?”

“I dunno,” Geralt grunted, chasing the man’s attention.

“Well, shouldn’t we check?”

“It’s fuckin’ midnight. Who’s it gonna be?”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows disbelievingly.

“Why don’t we go find out?”

Whoever it was, he was going to have some very strong words with them, Geralt thought as he stood and followed Jaskier to the door.

Upon opening it, though, all disgruntlement vanished from his mind as his eyes landed on the young tear streaked face waiting for them.

_Oh, fuck._

“Ciri.”

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled, voice tiny and barely audible. Her bag had been dumped at her feet and was still unzipped, showing a mess of scrunched up clothes. She’d left in a hurry.

Geralt felt like a new dad again, panicking because his little girl had fallen over on the playground and scraped her knee. She would cry and all the other parents would look at him expectantly, like he was supposed to know what to do. He knew how to treat the wound – disinfect and cover, but keep mobile enough to avoid uncomfortable stiffening of the joint – but there was no manual on cheering up children, no matter how many times he’d looked for one.

So, he did what had always worked all those years ago – He scooped her up into his arms.

She must have been in a bad way, because she didn’t protest. Rather, she wrapped her arms around his neck, tucked her face into his shoulder, and began sobbing anew.

He carried her into the living room, hearing Jaskier pick up her bag and close the door behind them.

Roach had awoken from her deep slumber at all the commotion, and was now nosing at Ciri’s feet, wanting to wrap the girl up in one of her famous big hairy cuddles. Geralt gently placed the girl where he’d been sitting just moments before, and the dog did just that.

 _Fuck._ A minute a go he’d been planning on ignoring her, and for what? He liked Jaskier. He _really liked_ Jaskier, he’d come to realise sometime between seeing Roach cuddle up to him on the first day and almost shoving his tongue down his throat, but no one was worth leaving his daughter on the doorstep. He’d been so afraid of letting someone in and been so high on the elation of feeling _wanted_ , he’d almost abandoned the most important person in his life.

Realistically, Geralt knew that she would have kept knocking, called out even, and eventually he would have gone and found her, but how long would she had to have waited? Alone, in the cold night, unable to get into her own house because her father was –

“Ciri, what happened?”

She just cried. She shook her head and buried deeper into Roach’s coat.

“How did you get home? Do your friends know you’re here?”

He hadn’t thought it was possible, but she started crying harder, sobs shuddering through her whole body.

Geralt was working so hard to keep it together, but he’d never seen Ciri like this, not even at her grandparents’ funerals. He had no blueprint on how to deal with this situation. He wanted to reach out. Some animalistic part of him wanted to grab her and hide themselves away in his room until everyone had calmed down. He just wanted to know what was wrong in the first place.

His phone lit up on the coffee table, blaring The Red Hot Chili Peppers. Caller ID read: _‘Lilia (Ada’s mum)’_.

“Hello?” He said, answering the call on its fifth ring.

His mood immediately darkened.

“Oh, really? You’ve just noticed, have you?”

Wearing the deepest scowl he’d probably ever managed, Geralt stormed into the kitchen. If he was going to speak his mind to this witless excuse for a mother, he was going to do it out of earshot.

.

. 

Jaskier stood in the corner of the room holding Ciri’s bag, watching the man he’d almost _kissed – God, they’d almost kissed! –_ fuss around his daughter and then thunder out of the room in a terrifying hurricane.

He didn’t know what to do.

She was a puddle, curled up on the couch clinging to Roach like the animal was keeping her alive.

Maybe it was.

He’d never been in a situation like this before: watching the child of his… what do they call each other now? They’re not _friends_. But they’re not _not_ friends. Well, not _just friends_. Not anymore. Jaskier had never almost made out with one of his friends before, and he’d certainly never wished more than anything to be the one running his fingers through snow white hair and placing soft kisses to the crow’s feet and the frown lines on his friend’s perfectly sculpted brow and cheekbones that led to more than a couple of fantasies that were _NOT APPROPRIATE TO THINK ABOUT WHILE THIS GIRL IS HAVING A BREAKDOWN! GOD, WHAT’S WRONG WITH HIM?_

Placing her bag down gingerly, trying to avoid making any sound (it felt so inappropriate, somehow), Jaskier’s mind raced.

He couldn’t just stand here. He had to do something. Had to do _what?_

Geralt seemed pretty tied up in something in the kitchen, and it didn’t sound like he needed his help at _all_.

Here then. What could he do here?

Sometimes, when one of his students got worked up over a particularly difficult piece of music, or couldn’t get their fingers to make the right shape on the fret board, or had just had a rubbish day and were in no state to learn the intricacies of Brahms’ composition style, he would just sit and chat with them. If they needed to cry, they were more than welcome to do so - God knows Jaskier’s had his fair share of musically motivated meltdowns.

Crying was good, he’d learnt as he’d grown older. It was one of the purest forms of catharsis he knew of.

He didn’t know if Ciri would be open to talking about something, and if she was, _what_ she would be open to talking about, but Jaskier had had enough of standing frozen in the corner watching everything play out like a piece of masochistic theatre.

He stepped towards the couch, and Roach lifted her head. The jostling movement brought Ciri’s gaze towards him, and he hesitated for a moment. There was no malice in her eyes, though. In fact, from the looks of it, the poor thing had little energy left to project any feeling whatsoever onto him. He grabbed the box of tissues from the dresser and crouched by her.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, pulling out a clump of tissues and blowing her nose loudly. “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

Jaskier’s heart broke.

“Oh, darling, of course you didn’t.”

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He felt like he should… touch her in some way. Touch was generally comforting.

 _When it’s from someone you know,_ Jaskier reminded himself. He didn’t know Ciri, and Ciri didn’t know him. At all.

This was so uncomfortable.

“We were watching a movie, what was there to ruin?” He joked.

_Why the fuck did he joke?_

The young girl tried to smile, and Jaskier appreciated the effort, but the whole thing just hurt his heart even more.

“I don’t know what you and your dad do with this kind of thing,” he admitted, feeling properly useless. “I don’t know what to do.”

Big green eyes met his through a curtain of tears.

“Can I have a hug?” Ciri whispered. Even at this level her voice was hoarse, and Jaskier made the mental note to recommend a warm cup of honey and lemon water before he left.

“Of course, you can,” he said, surging up onto the couch and wrapping the small girl in his arms. She was so slender, and shaking, it felt like she could shatter in his hold. He still squeezed her tight, though. Hugging was good. Hugging he could do, and if this was what she needed, Jaskier was going to give it to her.

Her breathing evened out slightly, and with Roach now laying across both their laps, Jaskier decided to try some talking.

“I like your onesie.”

Ciri huffed out a surprised laugh, probably getting snot (more snot) on his sweater.

“Thanks.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“ASOS.”

He hummed.

“What’s the largest size it comes in?”

“Wha - ?” She lifted her head to shoot him a confused look. “You’re not getting a copy of my skeleton onesie!”

“Come on! We’d be matching! It’d be so cute!”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “You’re even lamer than Dad.”

“I’m sure he’d be very pleased to hear that.”

“Which is why you must never tell him,” she whispered, poking a finger into his chest. 

Jaskier chuckled. “You’re such a cool kid.”

Ciri sighed, long and deep. It was the kind of sigh that Jaskier expected to come from someone elderly, having borne the brunt of all of life’s whips and snares, not someone barely halfway through high school.

“Maybe, if you knew…” her voice grew thick as she started to cry again. “You might not think so if you knew…”

“Knew what?” Geralt’s gravelly voice sounded through the room. Even now, with everything going on, the sound sent a thrill down Jaskier’s spine and he wanted to _slap_ himself.

The girl sat bolt upright.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Lilia said you disappeared. Didn’t tell anyone where you were going, that you were even _leaving_. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t want…” she sniffled, trying so hard to keep the tears at bay. “I didn’t know if this was where I was coming.”

“Where else would you go?”

“I don’t know!” She sobbed, collapsing in on herself.

Jaskier’s eyes burned, and he tried to control his breathing the way his doctor had recommended. In for four seconds, hold for five seconds, exhale for six seconds. 

In for four seconds, hold for five seconds, exhale for six seconds. 

In for four seconds, hold for five seconds, exhale for six seconds. 

He glanced to the side to see Ciri watching him closely, copying. Geralt had taken a seat next to her, also watching intently.

If he didn’t stop that soon Jaskier was going to start sweating.

“What happened?” Geralt asked finally, tearing his eyes away from Jaskier.

“I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Well, it’s a bit late for that.”

“How’d you get here?” Jaskier blurted out. It had been nagging him this whole time. No one knew she was coming, so how did she _arrive?_

“… I walked.”

“You _walked?”_ Geralt seethed. “It’s the middle of the night! Do you know how dangerous that is? And you didn’t want me to _worry_?”

“I know! I’m sorry!” Ciri cried.

Jaskier reached out a hand to place on her shoulder. Every new piece of this story cut deeper and deeper into his chest cavity.

All the nights he’d spent wandering the streets as a teenager, trying his best to escape reality for the few hours he could - all the trouble he’d gotten into, the close calls he’d had.

Ciri didn’t seem like that kid.

He so desperately didn’t want Ciri to be that kid.

“I want to go to bed,” Ciri whispered.

It looked like Geralt might cry. The burning in Jaskier’s own eyes returned with a vengeance. He rubbed the girl’s back tenderly before she unfolded off the couch and dragged herself to the stairs.

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

And she disappeared.

It was painfully quiet in the room now. Roach had climbed onto Geralt’s lap, a sight that would have been adorably funny if the preceding events hadn’t set them up to implode at a moment’s notice.

“You must think I’m a terrible father,” Geralt murmured, fingers running shakily through Roach’s thick coat.

“Why would I think that?”

Geralt looked at him. Jaskier looked back.

All he saw was a father in crisis, a man terrified for his daughter.

“You’re scared.”

The man barked out a biting laugh. “Christ, it doesn’t take a genius to see that, Jaskier! I’m always scared.”

He sighed. “Always scared.”

Jaskier’s heart broke for what felt like the millionth time that night. The man looked so small, curled up around his dog, clinging to her for dear life. His eyes were shut, but Jaskier was sure they were teary. His features seemed relaxed, but in comparison to his usual pinched expression, they just looked sad, like they’d given up on the façade and were relishing in the opportunity to let it all slip away. Geralt had become a blank canvas.

Jaskier didn’t know what to say, which was an uncomfortable place to be in. All his life he’d been told to shut up, to put a cork in his motormouth and for the love of God, please just sit there and behave. He’d never been any good at all that. He had ideas, and opinions, and sometimes he just spoke out of habit, but he’d always _shared_. He didn’t know what it was to keep something to himself, _for_ himself. It seemed selfish. An allergy that brought him out in hives.

But now he had nothing to give.

What could he offer? He’d never been a parent, and probably never would be. And that was probably for the best, anyway.

He had _some_ form of experience, but it was old and traumatic and buried under a layer of dust and cobwebs he’d worked so hard to cultivate. Geralt didn’t need another sob story tonight, and Jaskier didn’t think he could handle telling one.

So, he just sat there dumbly, thoughts whirling inside his head.

“You’re gonna make yourself bleed,” a gruff voice said, breaking through the storm.

“What?”

“You pick at your fingernails,” Geralt said, eyes open now, and watching him.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, looking down at his fingers that were, yes, red and inflamed and maybe one layer of skin away from being a crimson mess.

“I really don’t think you’re a bad dad.”

Geralt looked away.

“You care so much. That’s what matters.”

“You only think that because yours didn’t.”

“Which is how I know I’m right.”

Caramel eyes flicked in his direction, but their stubborn owner didn’t move.

Jaskier smiled sadly and stood. God, he was tired now. The kind of tired that he knew would keep him up all night. It sat heavy in his brain and spread as an ache down his spine, pulling his body and his mind deep into the earth.

“I’m gonna go…”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“What?”

“It’s 1am!”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m - ”

“What do you wear to bed? I’m sure we’ve got something that’ll fit you.”

“Geralt - ”

“ _Jaskier.”_ Geralt was looking at him now, eyes sharp and focused, a far cry from his expression mere moments ago. “I’ve already had one person wandering the streets tonight,” he said, rising to meet him. “I’d rather not have another.”

The brunette swallowed.

“Alright.”

Geralt’s shoulders visibly dropped an inch.

.

.

Jaskier sat on the lilac comforter, swamped in one of Geralt’s t-shirts. He knew he couldn’t sleep. His brain was going at a million miles an hour trying to process the night’s events.

Geralt liked men.

Geralt liked _him._

Geralt liked him in the way that he liked men, as in kissing and touching and –

But they hadn’t.

Because Ciri was in trouble.

His leg jiggled. Memories of climbing out of bedroom windows and sliding down drainpipes kept popping up. Memories of drug and alcohol fueled mistakes as well.

He stood in a rush, blood struggling to reach his brain after the sudden change in positions. He blinked away stars.

And then put his jeans on because he was aware of what was appropriate to do around a fourteen-year-old and what wasn’t, no matter what his intentions were.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as he exited the bedroom. He scanned the hallway.

One door was definitely Geralt’s. He’d seen him go in there. Another one was the bathroom, which left only one door.

Ciri’s.

He tiptoed over, wincing as his bare toes came into contact with the icy floor. He tapped his knuckle on the door frame.

No sounds came from the other side.

He tapped again.

There was a shuffling from the other side of the wall before the door opened a crack.

“Jaskier?”

He honestly hadn’t been sure he’d get this far and now he didn’t know how to proceed with this plan, ill-though out as it was.

“Can you sleep? I can’t sleep. Right old insomniac, I am - ”

“I can’t sleep,” Ciri whispered back, voice cracking.

Jaskier winced. “That throat’s gotta kill.”

She nodded, bringing a hand up to rub it gently.

He smiled. “I know how to fix it. C’mon.”

.

.

Down in the kitchen, kettle boiling, jar of honey and half a lemon waiting at the ready, Jaskier watched the tiny blonde swing her legs as she perched on the countertop.

“I know we don’t really know each other,” he said as he poured the steaming hot water over a teaspoon of honey, “…at all, but… you could tell me things… if you like.”

He squeezed a lemon wedge until it broke in half, and then dropped it in the mug for good measure.

Ciri took his offering without comment.

“Sometimes I think it’s easier to tell people things if you don’t know them. There’s less to lose.”

She blew on her drink.

“The first person I came out to was a girl in my biology class. We sat next to each other but we didn’t really talk, and one afternoon after school we went to MacDonald’s to get their gross soft serve ice creams, and she started talking about how in love with Winona Ryder she was, so I said I was obsessed with Leonardo di Caprio.”

The girl took a cautious sip.

“We didn’t really talk much after that, either. I guess she could’ve told the whole school, but I’m bloody glad she didn’t. At least with you, you could just tell your dad you hate me, and he’d never see me again.”

“That’s not true.”

Jaskier turned away to hide his smile, glad to have earned a reply, and pretended to inspect a rather fancy jar of jam sitting on top of the fridge.

“There’s nothing in this world he cares about more than you,” He said. “I’d be gone in a second, I’m sure of it.”

Ciri made a slurping sound as she drank more of Jaskier’s hot concoction.

“What did you come out as? Can I ask that?”

“At the time,” he said, folding his legs under himself and sitting on the floor with a grunt he’d tried desperately to conceal, “bisexual. But I think pan suits me better now.”

She nodded earnestly, sliding a finger around the rim of the mug. It squeaked. The terracotta tiles were cold on Jaskier’s bum.

“I don’t think I’m a girl,” Ciri said quickly. “But I’m not a boy. Those are gross.”

Jaskier snorted.

“No offence.”

“None taken!”

“I’ve been… googling things? I don’t know about pronouns and stuff, changing those seems so confusing for everyone and I don’t want to make people’s lives any harder but…”

Jaskier looked to the cupboard door handle by her feet, trying to give her some room to move and think.

“I think I’m nonbinary.”

His head whipped up. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from this whole escapade, but being told something so intimate was _not_ it.

“Did you tell your friends?”

She nodded.

“Except I don’t think they’re my friends anymore.”

“Oh.”

He rose up from the floor, knees reminding him that he wasn’t a twenty-something year old kid anymore, goddammit, and walked over to where she was sitting.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he said, eyes misting over.

She pulled him into a hard hug, the contents of her mug sloshing over the sides and giving him a wet patch on his back.

“I’m really glad Dad met you,” she whispered into his chest.

He couldn’t stop the tear that rolled down his cheek and into her hair.

“Me too.”

.

.

Geralt lay awake.

He heard creaking wood and whispering and the closing of doors, but Roach seemed unperturbed, so he took that as a good sign.

As the house sat quiet, finally, in the early hours of the morning, he closed his eyes, and saw the sight of Jaskier hugging his daughter staring back at him.

Something that had taken years for him to build the confidence to do had come so freely and naturally to the other man. It hurt, to see his inadequacies so clearly reflected back to him.

But the image warmed his belly, nevertheless.

Once again, something in his chest broke apart, and was put back together somewhere new.

He did not sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know someone was wondering if it was going to be Yen coming to cause a big ol' Misunderstanding.  
> Pshaw!  
> not yet, at least!
> 
> real talk tho if someone comes out to you Do Not make the whole thing about how hard it is for you to adjust because i Promise you that is the sure fire way to no longer have that friend lol no i'm not talking from personal experience shhhhhhhhhhhhhh


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybodyyyyy once again this chapter kicked my ass lmao. Paired with uni stuff n assignments, goodness my ass must be black and blue from being booted all over the place.
> 
> Anyway, here we are at last.
> 
> Little warning for a bit of nonbinary/transphobia and the d-word lesbophobic slur (not from any of our heroes dw)
> 
> Enjoy!

Roach woke Geralt from his doze at seven, as usual, by dropping his pill bottle on his face. He’d tried to train her to put it somewhere else – on his chest, in his hand, literally _anywhere else_ – but he was starting to think she found some joy in the startled _hrmph!_ sound he made every morning when the plastic hit the bridge of his nose.

The pills rattled around in their container. He popped two, as usual, and then slumped back into bed.

He was dry-swallowing SSRIs. Great start to the day.

His bedmate wasn’t content with laying around all morning, though. She leapt off the mattress and sat expectantly at the door, round brown eyes staring holes into him.

He grunted and threw his duvet to the side.

.

.

No sound had come from the other bedrooms as he padded down the stairs. He’d kept an ear out while he gave Roach her heaped cup of kibble, while he did his chin-ups and circuits around the backyard, so when he heard a morning-weary voice croak out, “Hey, Geralt,” it had come as a bit of a shock.

Wide blue eyes stared back at him as he loosened his grip on the assailant’s collar. They weren’t scared, though. Just…

“You, uh,” Geralt cleared his throat awkwardly as he smoothed out Jaskier’s – his - shirt. “… Surprised me.”

“Sorry,” Jaskier smiled weakly. “I’ve been told I’m rather light under foot. Should know better by now.”

“Hm.”

Geralt’s hand was still on the man’s shoulder. Under the thin material of his sleepshirt, he felt the firm promise of muscle he hadn’t expected. Rather than overstay his welcome, though, he dropped his arm back to his side.

“Your garden’s lovely!” Jaskier said, rolling his shoulders and looking around.

“ ’S grass,” Geralt said, finding himself unable to tear his eyes away from the impressive display of chest hair on show through the wide neckline of the white tee.

“And hedge!” The brunette laughed as he tried, and failed, to mask a shiver.

Geralt snapped back to his senses and pushed the younger man inside.

It was a bit after eight in the morning, now, and the autumn sun was squeezing through gaps in thick English cloud cover to highlight select spots of the kitchen countertop. Jaskier had his socks and jeans on, but Geralt still felt guilty seeing the man stand on the terracotta tiles looking out onto the frost covered lawn.

“I’ll get you something warmer.”

“Oh, you don’t have to!” Jaskier said, but as he wrapped his arms around his middle, his skin blanched under the pressure of his fingers, and Geralt knew that he did, in fact, have to.

.

.

The hoodie was huge on the smaller man.

“I could just wear my sweater from yesterday,” he grumbled as he stuffed his hands into the deep pockets, further highlighting the baggy fit.

“You could,” Geralt conceded, turning away because it was all a little much and a bit embarrassing, “but it looks good on you.”

He stole a quick look of his… friend… in the moss green top. He was blushing.

“Fifteen sizes too big?” Jaskier joked.

“I have been reliably informed that it’s very ‘in’ at the moment.”

Jaskier laughed quietly. “I’ll trust you.”

Geralt smiled. He pottered around his kitchen for a while, watering the few houseplants he’d managed to keep alive and finding a couple of clean mugs for tea.

There was already one in the sink, he noticed.

He glanced to Jaskier, thinking he’d probably just gotten thirsty during the night (though, that didn’t account for the spoon), and saw the man regarding the family photos hung on the dresser.

“Ciri looks like her mum,” he said, catching Geralt staring.

Geralt’s throat dried. “Yeah.”

“She was adorable. Still is! Different kind of adorable now, though. Less squishy cheeks and gappy teeth and more… precocious mini-grownup.”

“Grownups can be adorable,” Geralt parroted as he walked over to stand at Jaskier’s side.

Jaskier grinned shyly and poked him in the belly.

“Yeah they can.”

It was Geralt’s turn to blush this time. He cleared his throat.

“Tea?”

“Ooh, please!”

“And I’m gonna make waffles. That sound alright to you?”

Jaskier’s hands were pulled out of the jumper’s large pocket and clenched at his sides. His fingers flexed.

“Perfect.”

.

.

Jaskier watched as Geralt floated around the kitchen picking out bowls and spoons and ingredients. The light filtering through the windows created a silhouette, occasionally coming in at an angle that illuminated the pattern on his jumper or the touch of silver in his white hair.

He could have offered to help, but he was really more of a culinary hinderance than anything else, and it was nice to have a moment to think. The clinking of metal and glass and plastic was a comforting background noise as Jaskier held his cup of English Breakfast close to his chest, feeling the warmth spread through the fabric of the hoodie and into his skin.

“Why aren’t there any pictures of you?”

Geralt paused in his whisking of the batter.

“I wasn’t around much.”

“Oh.”

Mixture was poured into the old waffle iron Geralt had pulled out from the back of a cupboard, and a timer was put on.

“Ciri’s grandparents,” Geralt said, walking over and pointing to an older couple in one of the family photos, “looked after her after her parents died.”

“Where were you?”

Geralt paused again. The muscles in his jaw twinged as he clenched it.

“I’m sorry, that’s none of my business. Forget I said anything. God, I’m a fucking idiot!”

“No, you’re not,” he interrupted. “I was… away. Working.”

“Right.”

The timer went off, and Geralt practically ran to the counter. Jaskier didn’t blame him. He had the feeling he’d managed to put his foot in it rather spectacularly.

As Geralt was serving up the first two golden waffles onto a plate, the stairs behind the kitchen table creaked.

Both men’s heads whipped around, and saw Ciri, hair messy and eyes so tired they looked bruised, peering through the pine balustrades.

“Are you making waffles?” Their voice was still minuscule – depressingly different to the loud and bright person Jaskier had met twelve hours ago.

“Yeah.”

“Can I have some?”

Geralt smiled, and it looked like ten years of stress and held breath had left his body as he said, “Of course. I was making them for you.”

The corners of Ciri’s mouth twitched upwards, and they slunk down the remaining steps and padded over to where their father was waiting.

Jaskier watched with bated breath.

“Banana, maple syrup,” Geralt listed as he pulled the prepared toppings towards them, obviously just as tense as Jaskier was.

“Cream?”

“Ah, fuck!”

“It’s okay. I don’t need it.”

“But you want it,” Geralt sighed, visibly deflating.

“Can’t always get what you want,” Ciri said, alarmingly level, as they picked up their full plate and cutlery and headed back upstairs.

Jaskier smiled at them as they passed by. They didn’t meet his eye.

It was just the two men again in the kitchen again, no sound except the ticking of the cooling waffle iron. Geralt poured more batter in and set the timer.

“I talked to Ciri last night,” Jaskier said. “After you went to bed. I thought it had gone okay, but maybe not.”

“She’s dealt with a lot of trauma. She’s got her coping mechanisms worked out.”

Jaskier hummed as he fiddled with handle of his mug.

“What’d she say?”

Jaskier looked up to see Geralt’s burning gaze on him. Something painfully hopeful was in his eyes and Jaskier didn’t know how to broach this. He didn’t know if he _should_. He’d somehow won Ciri’s trust last night and, while he did think Geralt should know, Jaskier wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

“Some of it’s teenage stuff I think we’ve all been through,” he said. “Some of it’s not.”

Geralt nodded sagely. He’d obviously understood _something_ of the point Jaskier was trying to get across, even if Jaskier himself was left at a loss as to what the hell he was talking about.

The timer went off just as Jaskier’s stomach growled. Geralt brought out two plates and served the waffles up, carrying them over with fruit and syrup and Nutella balanced in his big arms. Jaskier reached out and relieved the man of some of his burden when he got close enough. It all looked so precarious.

Geralt sat down opposite him.

“I was a soldier,” Geralt began while he spread copious amounts of chocolate onto his waffle. “ ‘S why I was away. ‘S why I don’t like… red or… surprises.”

Jaskier watched the man in front of him, so imposing and strong, but soft and gentle, bite into his breakfast, avoiding eye contact and getting a little bit of sweet spread on the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t know what had him reeling more – unlocking another aspect of Geralt’s past, or the fact that this big ex-military man liked the same topping as Jaskier’s five-year-old nephew.

“I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask.”

“Iraq.”

“Right.”

“It was such bullshit. I missed five years of being a dad for fuck all. For a bunch of trauma and glorified murder, that’s what.”

“Why’d you come back?”

“Ciri’s grandfather died. Calanthe wasn’t doing well. I thought I could help, but it turned out I wasn’t doing much better… Worse, in fact.”

Jaskier watched on as Geralt began picking his breakfast apart distractedly.

“She wouldn’t let me be alone with her. Said I didn’t deserve her. Said I was dangerous. I wasn’t – I – I would never - ”

“I know,” Jaskier said, reaching over to place a hand on Geralt’s slightly shaking one. The muscles in his wrist twitched under the touch.

“Only way I could get to my own kid was through a psyche eval in the end. And now I’m stuck with that fucker for god knows how long for… checkups ‘n shit.”

Jaskier implored the downcast eyes before him to look up, even for a second, to see that Jaskier wasn’t scared. Or disgusted. Or disappointed. His tears were not for himself but for Geralt.

He rubbed a thumb over the corner of Geralt’s mouth, wiping away the little smear of Nutella that sat there.

That got his attention.

“You’re a brave man, Geralt du Rivia,” he said, and he sat back into his chair, blinking away any traitorous water.

Light brown eyes followed him as he licked the chocolate off the pad of his thumb.

“That’s not fair,” the older man breathed.

Jaskier smiled smugly. He’d been worried, selfishly, that after everything that had happened, Geralt might have forgotten, or changed his mind, about their little moment last night. He’d fretted all night that the older man would decide it wasn’t important and that he didn’t care.

That was clearly not that case.

“You better watch out,” he snickered, “coz I’ve never played fair a day in my life!” 

.

.

There was a knock at Ciri’s door.

The blinds were drawn, fairy lights were on, and they were listening to music through the shitty headphones they’d bought from the convenience store after they’d dropped their good ones in a pond last summer.

Geralt had refused to buy new ones, which was probably fair considering the fact that he’d paid for the phone and the data plan it was on, but it did mean Ciri had been left spending the remnants of their birthday money on Sony X-whatevers that didn’t even have volume control built into the wires.

“Can I come in?” Jaskier called through the door.

They yanked the buds from their ears.

“Yeah!”

The door cracked open, flooding the room with daylight from the hallway for a moment before Jaskier closed it behind him. He shuffled over, back in his clothes from yesterday, Ciri noticed, and stood by their bed awkwardly, tugging at the straps of his backpack.

“What’re you listening to?”

“Hole.”

Jaskier gawked. “Right. Um…”

He shifted the empty plate, licked clean of any remaining syrup, to the side and sat gently on the duvet.

“I’m leaving. But I wanted to say bye and um… I dunno.”

Ciri watched him. He looked like a startled animal ready to run away.

“Your dad really loves you,” he said finally, “and I know it’s scary as hell but… I really think you should talk to him about this. I’m not telling you too and I’m not saying you need to do it immediately – I think you should get things clear in your head, or as clear as you need them to be. Again, I’m not you. I don’t know – but…”

He finally took a breath, and Ciri found themselves breathing with him again. They couldn’t imagine how his lungs felt, constantly being pushed to their limits like this, because as far as Ciri could tell, Jaskier didn’t know when to finish one train of thought and begin another. They all seemed to meld into one stream of consciousness that you either followed or didn’t.

That was okay, though. Their dad was really good at listening.

Listening.

Yeah.

“It’s not that I think he’ll react badly,” they said. They really didn’t want Jaskier to think Geralt was at _all_ like that. “It’s just… He’s already dealing with so much. Looking after me is already so hard on him, I can’t put any more pressure on him. I can’t!”

“Hey,” Jaskier whispered, placing gentle hands on their shoulders. “You are not hard work, okay? Loving someone isn’t hard work, is it? Is loving your dad hard?”

They huffed out a wet laugh.

“No.”

“Even when he’s super annoying and doesn’t let you stay up late, or makes you do your homework for a class you hate, or nags you about chores?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

Ciri sighed. Loving their friends had been hard work. They’d always wanted something, been obsessed with crafting a new image every week based on what they’d read in their mum’s magazines, even though they knew Ciri couldn’t afford to keep up. The girls would give them little things every now and then, to keep them included, but not enough that they didn’t look different. It was always clear who would be the first to go, if the group ever needed a cull. And apparently it had.

All the times they’d impressed upon Ciri just how thankful they should be for everything they did for them had added up to Ciri’s ‘friends’ refusing to do the one thing they actually needed.

_“I’m nonbinary.”_

_“Oh, I’ve read about that! You know, one of the actors in The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina is nonbinary. She’s really cool.”_

_“They use they/them pronouns, actually. And their character uses he/him. It’s like, the first way we’re introduced to him, really, if you think about it. That he’s not cisgender.”_

_“I just thought he was a dyke.”_

_“Don’t use that word.”_

_“It’s a free country, Ciri. I’ll say what I want.”_

_“Doesn’t mean you should.”_

_“Since when did you care about all this shit anyway?”_

_“I’m nonbinary!”_

_“We get it! God, I know you don’t feel ‘special’, but you don’t have to start making weird attention seeking stuff up about yourself to make you more interesting. You don’t even look it, anyway, so what’s the point?”_

_“FUCK YOU!”_

“How are you so good at this?”

Jaskier smiled, a sad glint remaining in his eye.

“Honestly, I’m just trying to say the things I needed to hear. Being a teenager fucking sucks, and being a queer one is worse for a whole multitude of reasons, but you’re not the first to go through this. There’s a whole community who’s got your back, and it’s not gonna be easy, but you’ve got it better than I did.”

His smile turned cheeky and bright.

“At least _your_ dad knows what a pride flag looks like.”

Ciri laughed, properly, for the first time in what felt like years.

“The lesbian one’s his favourite.”

“Oh?”

“I think it’s coz it looks like a sunset. He likes sunsets.”

Jaskier smirked. “That’s very good to know…”

Ciri hugged him again. They didn’t know why they’d told him everything last night, or why they were so excited to have him with their dad. They imagined that some kids in this situation would be really protective. It had only ever been the two of them against the world, so what right did this new guy have coming in and shaking it all up?

But Ciri had meant what they’d said. The fact that he’d gotten through the front door was more telling than any fumbled explanation from Geralt could ever be.

Jaskier had proven himself, over and over again, to be completely worthy of Ciri’s father, in whatever way their relationship developed.

But Ciri had their suspicions, after listening to their father talk about the man for weeks and finally seeing them together last night, and very much hoped to be proven right.

They really liked being right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (if i mess up ciri's pronouns anywhere lemme know my brain has been turned to mush trying to switch between pronouns from different povs in different levels of The Know dfghjk)  
> (also i've only actually watched two episodes of the chilling adventures of sabrina sdfghjk so if i got something painfully wrong lemme know aha)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier goes to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooooooooooooooo i am so SORRY it has been a WHILE  
> I'm finished w my first semester of uni now tho so WE BACK

Was it wrong that Jaskier felt like he was walking on air? The quick stroll from Geralt’s house to the tube station flew by in a flurry of late-morning sunshine and idle daydream. Even the toddler screaming in his ear on the train couldn’t dampen his spirits.

Geralt’s – _no, the spare bedroom’s -_ sheets had smelt like upmarket, scented laundry detergent and old books. Warm and cuddly but vibrant and fresh. The smell of citrus was so burned into his nostrils that he barely noticed the sick on the baby’s shirt.

Jaskier imagined what laundry day in the Rivia house looked like. Did Geralt decide to whip his shirt off and chuck in the dark load on a whim, finishing loading the machine in full topless glory? God, he hoped so. Jaskier hadn’t been blessed with that view just yet, but he could _imagine_.

He imagined it was a sunny day. Warm. There was no rush to find another shirt to replace the one now in the wash. They could go out into the garden and hang the damp clothes on the washing line and laugh as Roach raced around the lawn chasing butterflies. Ciri would roll their eyes and grimace at how sappy they were.

He imagined slipping into bed that evening, fresh sheets cool and crisp against their bare legs. Would Geralt hold him? It would be a waste of such a broad chest to not lay upon it, even just for a little while. He imagined the rumble of Geralt’s voice as they talked about nothing, the warmth radiating from his skin. Did he have chest hair? God, he hoped so.

Jaskier was self-aware enough to realise, as he trotted up the stairs to street level and left screaming children and vomit behind, that he was already in embarrassingly deep. There wasn’t quite the sense of panic he usually felt at this discovery, though. 

Not only had he gotten approval from Ciri, who was clearly the most important person in Geralt’s life bar none, but they _trusted_ him.

That, paired with the fact that it had been made _very_ clear last night that Jaskier’s feelings were reciprocated by the cut-marble god he’d managed to make blush, left him seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses.

Not the puddle he stepped in, not the abuse spewed at him from the driver whose moving car he accidentally walked in front of, not even the knowledge he was running late, could dampen his spirits.

Well, maybe that last one did quicken his pace a little.

.

.

“Late,” the boy leaning against the apartment door stated.

“I know, I know. Sorry! I got caught up!”

Jaskier searched frantically for his keys in his coat, eventually finding them in the pocket he’d looked in (and seen nothing) first.

“Why didn’t you knock on Essi’s door or something? You know she loves your company! It’s cold in the hallway!”

Dara looked down at his scuffed sneakers. One of his laces had changed colour since the last time they’d met. The new red fabric looked striking against the fading black canvas.

“You _know_ she does,” Jaskier insisted as he jiggled the lock.

A mechanism in the door clicked.

Jaskier turned the squeaky doorknob and ushered his most prized student inside.

You aren’t supposed to have favourites, Jaskier knew, and he did love and cherish everyone that came through his door hoping to master one of the many instruments he taught. Dara was different, though. Dara was special. His proudest accomplishment, even.

As the boy shut the door gently behind them, Jaskier strode through his flat’s little front room, flinging his coat and bag onto the old foldout sofa.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” He said as he spun around. His smile was manically wide, he could feel it. His cheeks were starting to hurt.

Dara sighed in that perfect tired teenage boy tone Jaskier loved to hear from him so much.

“Why were you late, Jaskier?” He asked, pitch perfectly set to be gently mocking. Jaskier was so proud.

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked, my darling Dara. _Well,_ I went to Geralt’s last night - ”

“Wait. No. Am I - Am I witnessing your w-walk of shame?”

Jaskier gasped. “No! I would never discuss something like that with a student!”

Dara raised a single eyebrow in an expression Jaskier was starting to associate with Geralt, but people had been looking at him like that all his life. He was yet to find the commonality in these situations. (He knew it was _him,_ but it was more fun to feign innocence and exasperate them even more.)

“Anyway, I don’t like what you’re implying about me! It was my first time at his house! We watched a movie and drank hot chocolate like good Halloween Town citizens!”

“We are talking about the same guy here, right? Big and scary. Glares a lot. Talks less than me.”

“He does not talk less than you. There’s nothing wrong with the amount that either of you talk.”

“But it _is_ him, right? Ninety-nine percent jawline and muscle.”

Jaskier blushed. “He is pretty dishy, isn’t he?”

Dara rolled his eyes. “So… what happened?”

“I told you!”

“Nuh-uh! There’s no way you’re this excited over a movie and chocolate milk.”

“I like choccy milk,” Jaskier pouted.

Dara reached into his own backpack and pulled out his notebook and worksheets, moving over to the bay window where they did their lessons.

“We almost kissed!” Jaskier blurted out. He hated how powerless he was to resist sharing, and how well Dara knew this. The kid didn’t even have to ask, even look at him anymore. Manipulative little shit.

He was so proud.

“Almost?” The teenager parroted incredulously.

“Something… came up. But it was definitely going to happen!”

“This isn’t going to end like that pub brawl story, is it?”

“No! I have it on very good authority that he likes men, and also it wasn’t a ‘brawl’, it was a simple misunderstanding.”

“Chip on your tooth says otherwise.”

“I told you, I got that falling up the stairs.”

Dara huffed out a quiet laugh and shook his head at his teacher’s antics. “Still don’t get why you think that’s better.”

.

.

“I think we should take a break.”  
“I can keep going!”

“You’re wheezy.”

“‘M not!”

“Your wheezing says otherwise.”

Dara’s grumble was music to Jaskier’s ears. The rubbing of his ribs was less pleasing.

“Do you need to take it off?”

The boy’s hand snapped to his side. “No.”

“How long have you had it on?”

“Not long.”

Jaskier sighed. They had this conversation almost every week, but they never got any closer to a truce. He knew that Dara knew he was right, and that he had his best interests at heart. The kid was stubborn, though, and so painfully self-conscious and ashamed that even after over a year of friendship, he wouldn’t let them be in a room together while he was unbound.

“Dara - ”

“Women wore c-corsets twelve hours a day for – for centuries and they - they were fine!”

“Actually, they caught lung-related diseases way more frequently, suffered from atrophy of their back muscles and often had chronic indigestion and constipation, but yeah, they were fine.”

He was met with a scowl that he probably deserved, but he wasn’t about to back down. Dara knew the strain his binder put on his intercostal muscles and ribs.

“S – _URGH!”_

“What?”

The boy just whined and flapped his arms a little, turning away in a huff.

Jaskier always worried when this happened. He couldn’t help the fear that crawled up his spine every time they got in a tiff - because Dara was stubborn, but goddammit Jaskier was too. _And_ he had the degree to back him up, which more often than not just dug him a deeper hole to apologise out of.

One day, he was going to push too far, be too arrogant, push too big and red a button, and ruin all of their hard work. All of Dara’s hard work.

“Are you blanking me or are the words getting stuck?”

Dara held up two fingers, which Jaskier chose to interpret at meaning the second option, rather than an emphatic “Up yours!”

Jaskier took a breath. “Okay,” he said, adopting a slower and more deliberate tone, hoping that Dara would begin to subconsciously mirror it. “Close your eyes.”

He couldn’t see if his student was following, and Dara clearly wasn’t comfortable looking at him right now, so he took a leap of faith and kept going.

“Open up your ears to the sounds of your body… then the room… then outside. Feel your feet in your socks, your shoes, standing on the floor. Where is your weight placed? Don’t,” he rushed in to add as he noticed Dara shifting slightly, “correct it. Just notice it. We’re not judging anything, we’re just noticing. If you’re tense anywhere, try to relax that part of your body.”

Jaskier dropped his own shoulders at that.

“I’m sorry if you thought I was judging you. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“It’s alr-r- it’s okay.”

A huge gust of air escaped Jaskier’s lungs at hearing Dara’s voice, even if it was timid.

“I’m supposed to be helping you, not triggering another episode.”

“N – you didn’t.”

Jaskier sighed. “You can tell me if I fuck up, okay?”

Dara turned to face him again, face set in stern concentration.

Scrunching his brow, he began forming a thought.

“I d-don’t g – g – unders-stand – _ARGH!”_

“Hey, okay, it’s okay. Let’s try some humming.”

Dara began humming obediently, if a little exasperated. Jaskier would take what he could get.

“Good. Change up the pitch a bit.”

The corners of the boy’s mouth quirked up as the melody of Jaskier’s preferred vocal warm up came buzzing out of his resonators.

_“A baby sardine_

_Saw her first submarine_

_She was scared to look through the peephole!_

_‘Oh come, come, come’_

_Said the sardine’s mum_

_‘It’s only a tin full of people!’”_

Jaskier let out a little chuckle. “Perfect. Now add a vowel sound to the end? Long or short, I don’t mind.”

“MAH!”

The sound of Dara’s voice reverberated through the small living room. Jaskier grinned.

“Now,” he said, “I know you hate hearing this, but I really want you to. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dara took a deep breath in preparation, steeling himself for what was promising to be an exhausting activity. Jaskier really wanted him to do it, though. He really wanted him to push through it.

“H…Why… do… you only… care… h-when… you’re… correcting… me… These… days… you… barely… notice I’m at T-Temeria… You’re always… h-with G-Geralt.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

Dara looked down to his mismatched laces.

It hit Jaskier like a truck on the M25. Because it was true. For the past year, he and Dara would always be seen in Triss’ studio together. Dara’s quiet would keep Jaskier’s excess energy in check, and on the flipside, Jaskier’s antics would lift the boy’s spirits.

Over the last month or so, though, his attention had been diverted.

A hulking great man with snow white hair, golden eyes, and the sweetest dog to ever live had brooded his way into Jaskier’s heart and blinded him to the truth.

Beau’s come and go (at least in Jaskier’s experience.) Friends tended to stick around. It was _Jaskier’s_ job as a _friend_ to stick around.

Whether or not Jaskier’s penis was somehow cursed was a worry for another time.

“Dara, I’m so sorry.”

“I know I’m n-not that… that f-uh fun to be around, but - ”

“No, _absolutely_ not!”

Dara’s big brown eyes shot up.

“Wait – no, no, no, no, no, that’s not what I meant! I meant, don’t even start trying to say that! It’s not true!”

He just looked confused now.

“Ah, fuck.”

Dara snorted.

“Please don’t tell your mum I swore.”

A sneaky smirk spread across the boy’s face. “W-what’s in it f-uh for me?”

Jaskier groaned. “God, you’re such a little rat! Don’t tell your mum I said that either.”

“Promise not to ditch me, and m-maybe I’ll c-c-consider it.”

His playful tone set Jaskier’s racing heart a little more at ease.

“I would never.”

A dark eyebrow disappeared under Dara’s beanie as he quirked it questioningly. He’d gotten very good at portraying an awful lot without saying a word – he’d had to – but these days, at least with Jaskier, he only used these powers when his teacher was saying or doing something so stupid it didn’t warrant a vocal response, wasn’t worth the effort.

“ _Intentionally!_ I would never _mean_ to ditch you! God, I really am so sorry.”

Dara smiled and shrugged.

“Oo! I know!” Jaskier cried, bouncing on the balls of his feet so violently it was a wonder he didn’t get more letters of complaint from his downstairs neighbours. “I’ll introduce you this week!”

“We can suffer you in silence together.”

“You can join our little gang, yeah!”

Dara grinned and picked his notebook up off the coffee table to note down the exercises Jaskier had gotten him to do through their argument. Eventually, the man would finish fizzing with excitement about his new plan and catch up with the shade that had been thrown.

Like clockwork, Jaskier’s mouth dropped open, and he turned to Dara with a dramatically wounded expression.

_“Hey!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a version of jaskier's lil song lmao https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AQTUQUq7YA  
> this chapter is basically my just being like "hm what has MY vocal coach done?" and then writing it


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's in a name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha hello dears it has been a while yet again (getting back into the habit of writing is proving harder than i anticipated lmao OOPS) anyway i hope you enjoy!

Jaskier’s phone woke him up at four in the morning.

He hadn’t set an alarm, so this was a little aggravating.

His sleepy rage was quelled, though, when he saw the message waiting for him on the overly bright screen.

**Geralt:**

Ciri wanted me to give you this

**You:**

phone number?

**Geralt:**

Hers

**You:**

oh!

thanks!!

The world went blurry as his eyelids grew heavy and slid down, bit by bit, until just a blurry sliver of their conversation was visible. He was about to slip back into glorious nothingness when a quick thought ruined it.

**You:**

wait why are you awake????

**Geralt:**

Can’t sleep

**You:**

aw why L

**Geralt:**

Thinking

**You:**

……about…..

**You:**

don’t worry ur still my favourite rivia ;)

**Geralt:**

Roach will be heartbroken

**You:**

then don’t tell her!!!!!!!

**Geralt:**

No, I have to. Our relationship is built on trust and honesty

You:

X( ur the worst omg I take it back roach is definitely my favourite

**Geralt:**

:(

**You:**

don’t use that face with me!!

**Geralt:**

:(

**You:**

i swear to god i’ll come over there!!

**Geralt:**

Go back to sleep, Jaskier

**You:**

hmph

**Geralt:**

I’m not replying to you anymore

**You:**

0o0

**You:**

^^ that’s me being shocked and offended

**You:**

geralt

**You:**

GERALT

**You:**

DON’T IGNORE ME!!!!

**You:**

unbelievable

**You:**

roach is definitely my favourite now

**You:**

ur the worst

**You:**

except i already said that

**You:**

ok i’m going to bed now

**You:**

goodnight

**You:**

EXCEPT IT’S MORNING ISN’T IT

.

.

Geralt had decided to wait outside the main doors that morning, pointedly ignoring Roach wistfully watching other staff and patients entering Temeria without them. The huge sliding doors would let a little heated air escape each time. They’d be inside soon enough. She’d survive a few more minutes.

He held the takeaway cup close to his chest, trying to keep it warm and protect it from the chill of the morning air. Sugar and spice wafted their ways into his nervously flaring nostrils.

Finally, a familiar yellow parka came into view.

“Sleep in?” Geralt smirked as Jaskier hurried towards him. The man rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and I wonder whose fault that is!”

There was no bite in Jaskier’s bark, just playful exasperation mixed with a little genuine fatigue and anxiety.

Geralt sobered at that. “Sorry,” he said, holding out the sickly-sweet Starbucks concoction he’d bought along the way.

“It’s yours, by the way. It’s your fault.”

“Why didn’t you put your phone on silent?”

“My what?” Jaskier asked, eyeing Geralt’s still extended hand distractedly. “Oh! Because I _forgot, obviously!”_

Roach whined as the boy in the dark beanie Geralt had seen on his first week slipped behind them. He smiled at Jaskier as he passed. Geralt didn’t think he’d ever seen them do that before.

“Happen often?”

“Dara comes every week.”

“No, the forgetting, Jaskier.”

“OH!” He laughed. “Yeah. It’s less forgetting, more getting distracted, y’know? Oh, I could make every list and reminder known to man. I’ll still play Candy Crush til midnight and miss my sister’s birthday by two months. I still haven’t gotten her a present! What do you even buy a woman in her late twenties with a commerce degree?”

“Hm,” Geralt replied. His arm wasn’t getting sore, per se, but he wasn’t getting any younger, and his shoulders had earned their fair share of wear and tear over the years.

“Oh, is that for me?” Jaskier finally noticed. He warily took the still thankfully warm drink from Geralt’s grasp when he wasn’t met with any argument, the big man’s golden-brown eyes tracking his fingers as they nimbly wrapped around the girth of the cup, brushing gently against his own in the process. The tendons in his wrist flexed as he brought the cup closer to him.

Geralt cleared his throat. “Sorry about what happened on the weekend.”

“Nonsense,” Jaskier retorted on instinct. His eyes widened as he took a sip. “Oh, darling, I could kiss you right now, but I want it to be special.”

Geralt’s mouth went dry, and he suddenly craved the taste of pumpkin spice - although he’d still never be caught dead actually drinking the stuff. Jaskier’s cheeks were rosy, from the cold or his words catching up with him, and Geralt imagined his own face wasn’t fairing much better.

“Okay,” he croaked out, and immediately regretted it.

Okay?

_Okay?_

Sometimes he wished he wasn’t such the sullen, silent type, and sometimes he wished he could shut up forever, because speaking clearly wasn’t something he’d been gifted with when crafted by the storks at the baby factory or whatever he’d told Ciri when she’d asked but been too young for the true birds and bees talk.

…He’d panicked.

Lambert still teased him about it.

“Oi!” A call came from above their heads. I window had been popped open, and Renfri (now with a shorter haircut and a sunburn slowly fading into a tan) was leaning out and glaring at them.

“When you two are done snogging, feel free to come up!”

Roach yipped and Geralt wanted to be swallowed by the chewing gum freckled concrete.

Jaskier simply beamed and cried out, “Ren’s back!” before running inside. Geralt was dragged inside close behind.

.

.

“Late again,” Renfri stated. She and Dara had been watching the door, waiting, it appears.

Jaskier’s chest was heaving and he was still holding Geralt’s hand in his, tightly clasped. Geralt felt the heat and clamminess of sweat and exertion build up between their palms, but he didn’t let go. Not yet.

Jaskier shugged animatedly, jostling Geralt’s own arm in the process. “Gotta stay consistent, y’know?”

Still, they didn’t let go.

.

.

Eventually, they did, though, because the group began painting and decorating their pottery from last week’s session. Paints were set out, as well as glue and various glitters and tacky adhesive gems.

Renfri sat and watched the rest of them study their work pensively, occasionally pointing out places that needed another coat of paint or making mostly harmless scathing remarks. Dara drew a line of black on her palm after she made fun of the face he’d given his model sheep. Geralt quietly thought she deserved it.

The boy smiled at him, hesitant but bright.

That had never happened before.

This session was filled with new experiences, it seemed, because pretty much as soon as his brush had dipped into the yellow paint, Jaskier had been silent. Geralt watched the man furiously concentrate on his ill-proportioned sunflower, tongue sticking out and brows furrowed as he applied black glitter to the centre - where the seeds would normally go.

He must have been watching for a while, probably with that awful light in his eyes that Eskel had captured the first time he held Ciri - Vesemir had printed a copy of the photo out and framed it on the mantelpiece. Bunch of traitors, the lot of them – because he heard a snort come from his left and turned to see Dara giggling and Renfri finishing up a dramatic wink.

“Don’t abandon your wolf for a buttercup, big man,” she said, sickening mirth in her eyes.

“It is clearly a sunflower,” Jaskier replied, never once taking his eyes off his work. “And I told you that nickname in confidence.”

“Why would you ever have confidence in me?”

“Bitch.”

“Toff.”

“Harsh!” He cried, finally spreading his attention to the rest of the table. “Oh, Geralt that looks lovely. And Dara, yours is so cute!”

Renfri nudged one of its stumpy little black legs. “We should give it a name. It can be our mascot.”

Dara squinted and beckoned an ever-obedient Roach over, making his point very clear.

“Fair enough.”

.

.

Freshly painted clay drying to the side, Triss very excitedly explained to them what she had planned for the run up to Christmas break.

“You are absolutely free to not partake in this and carry on as normal, but for anyone interested, we’re going to have a little holiday party before Christmas - ”

Renfri cleared her throat.

“And Hanukkah, yes, thank you, Renfri – where we can display some of our work and show family and friends! With that in mind, I would like you all to go home and think about what long-form project you’d like to do as your centerpiece for the exhibition, and of course, if you want to do it at all! No matter what you decide,” she said, voice suddenly taking on a much more measured and serious tone, “you are all invited to the party, and you are _all_ valued and loved members of our group.”

.

.

The short trip down the foyer felt… lonely today. Geralt didn’t know why. Renfri was showing him pictures of her spontaneous trip to Madagascar in the elevator. He wasn’t alone. The sun looked bright and the sand looked fine and clean, and she looked beautiful in her black bikini surrounded by palm trees and clear ocean.

He caught himself thinking about what Jaskier had been talking to Dara about before they split off the take the stairs. Something to do with abstract art and dandelions. Roach had wanted to follow them, but Geralt knew she would get sick of having to navigate step after step on the way to the ground floor.

“Anyway,” she continued, although Geralt hadn’t been listening to anything that came before (regrettably), “swings and roundabouts, y’know? I have discovered that while it’s not _nice_ , per se, to be borderline suicidal on a white sand beach in the Indian Ocean, it’s infinitely preferable to doing it in a poky flat in grey old England.”

Geralt ‘hm’ed in response. He didn’t really know what else to do.

.

.

“I’m taking Roach to the park,” Geralt grunted, eyes pinned to his steel capped boots, “if you wanna come.”

Jaskier turned from his attempt at shooting the empty coffee cup into the bin by Ostrit’s desk, his face lit up in surprise.

“Right now?”

Geralt grunted again and nodded.

“I’d love to.”

.

.

They watched Roach chase the very last of autumn’s leaves as they fell from the boughs of the inner-city trees. Geralt sat on a park bench, an old knee injury playing up in the cold, calling her back every now and then when she threatened to stray too far or got distracted by other park patrons.

Jaskier had found a stick on the ground and, after Geralt had inspected and deemed it safe, had begun a game of fetch with the dog.

“She’s going mad!” Jaskier laughed.

Roach had caught the stick mid-air this time and was now throwing it around herself, acting so surprised when it landed somewhere new.

“She’s always on such high alert with me. It’s good for her let loose.”

Jaskier moved to sit next to Geralt on the bench. The painted wood was cold on his jean-clad bottom, so he shimmied around a bit, trying to warm it up.

There was a lot going through his head right now. Should he talk to Geralt about what happened on the weekend? Should he ask about Ciri? Should he ask about _them?_ Would Roach need him to throw something again soon? Was Geralt’s injury a war wound? Would Renfri get annoyed if he asked if she needed help paying for her manically planned holiday again?

Before he could try and sift his thoughts into some kind of order or priority, he felt Geralt shift and move, swinging his arm over the back of the bench like a cheesy teen rom-com. Jaskier liked it, though. They still weren’t touching, but he felt warmer. Safe.

“You’re supposed to yawn when you do that,” he joked, but he didn’t get a response.

He turned from watching Roach tear a lump of turf up from the grown to see two amber eyes studying him. The man’s expression was unreadable, and Jaskier felt a surge of anxiety climb up his throat.

“What’s up, Buttercup?”

The sound of his childhood nickname coated in a deep manly timbre almost distracted him from the horror of what Geralt had actually said.

He groaned. “We’re not doing this!”

“Why not?” Geralt asked, eyes almost as wide and innocent as Roach’s.

The display wasn’t going to work on Jaskier, though. He knew what those two were really capable of.

He met Geralt’s puppy eyes with a disbelieving stare. Neither man budged. Roached barked at a squirrel in the background.

“My grandma called me it!” Jaskier finally broke. Geralt smiled in satisfaction and Jaskier wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug look off his face.

Not here, though.

Not yet.

“She was a mad old Polish woman who hated the name my mother gave me – something about honouring a great uncle or something – so she always called me that instead. Anyway, it caught on, and eventually even Mum started using it. Everyone except Dad, really.”

Geralt was frowning now, and Jaskier didn’t like it.

“What?”

“Jaskier’s a nice name.”

“Oh!” He couldn’t help the cackle that escaped him – a full blown surprise belly laugh. “No. _Julian!”_

He was met with a blank look.

“My name’s Julian.”

Geralt blinked, and then turned away. Jaskier felt the beefy arm radiating heat to his shoulderblades be pulled back and tucked back against the other man’s torso.

“Geralt?”

“Why would you lie about your name?” Came a low and solemn grumble.

“I didn’t! Oh, God, oh Christ – Jaskier is Polish for buttercup!” 

He couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled out of him, making his shoulders jump and cheeks stretch.

Geralt didn’t turn back to him, but some of the tenseness in his posture had been released.

“You speak Polish?”

Jaskier smiled and shrugged. “Troszeczkę.”

Amber eyes flickered over to his once more.

“I don’t know what that means.”

Tucking a lock of snow-white hair away from the other man’s face, Jaskier felt suddenly very soft inside, like he was an ice cream that had melted in the midsummer sun and was only being saved from creating a mess on the burning concrete by the flimsy packaging holding all his contents inside. Seeing this big man squirm at being so unsure was setting his temperature high. He could have fun with this, God rest his sweet babula’s soul.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said as he winked impishly.

Geralt didn’t look too convinced, but was distracted from any more interrogation by an impatient and excitable chocolate Labrador who dropped a drool covered stick at his feet and barked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh not 100% on this chapter but i didn't want to make y'all wait any longer and i needed to put something out before i gave up completely asdfghjk  
> comments would be uhhh appreciated rn haha they really help me w motivation as well as what to focus on in the story as we go forward <3 MUCH LOVE TO YOU ALL


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri hates Shakespeare. Jaskier loves Shakespeare. Geralt doesn't know anything about Shakespeare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ!!!!!!!!!!!  
> I'm updating the tags bc i've planned further ahead and Cahir is making an appearance which means not so lovely stuff  
> Pls read the new tags and if you want any clarification feel free to message me! I'm twitter pretty much always https://twitter.com/bohemianuwus   
> Nothing graphic or extreme will happen in this fic, that's not the feel or point of this work, but I know it is sensitive 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for being so supportive so far! On we go!

Geralt was close to tearing his hair out.

“They couldn’t possibly love each other!”

“No!”

“They’d known each other for four days!”

“I agree!”

“But it’s not on the list of tragedies!” Ciri cried, waving the hated piece of paper that her English teacher had given her last week in the air like maybe, if she mistreated it enough, an answer would come tumbling out of the A4.

The promise of a splitting headache was beginning to bloom behind Geralt’s eyes, and he hopelessly tried to rub the pain away.

“Maybe she forgot.”

Ciri grumped, throwing the list onto the table and sulking in her seat.

“Don’t get like this.”

“I hate Romeo and Juliet _._ It’s a stupid play.”

Geralt sighed, completely out of his depth. Practical subjects he could do. He’d excelled in biology, chemistry – hell, even _physics_ had come relatively easily to him – but the arts… They were a whole other story. If he couldn’t express _himself_ at the best of times, how anyone expected him to understand the complexities of the written word, of someone else’s creative process, and then _write it down coherently_ , was beyond him.

“It’s very famous.”

“Mission Impossible is famous, and those movies are stupid.”

He couldn’t argue with that. He still remembered the pained look on Lambert’s face when they’d returned home from the cinema. Ciri had been going through a spy phase. No one expected her to pick apart the inaccuracies of an action movie at nine years old.

“Maybe Yen could - ”

“Yen’s in Finland for that fraud case. She _told_ you.”

“Right.” Geralt felt like an idiot. “Of course.”

His daughter’s face softened. “Bad brain day?”

“Hm.”

Apparently.

She looked back to her workbook, mostly filled with scribbles and unflattering portraits of teachers and classmates that Geralt had told her to stop drawing in such visible places, and put on a brave face.

“I can do it.”

“Ciri - ”

“Go take a nap or whatever it is old people do,” she said as she shooed him away. “I’ll work it out.”

She sounded determined, and Geralt’s head felt like it was about to crack in half down the middle, so he caved easily.

“Just give me a shout before you start breaking things,” he said as he hauled himself up from the dining table.

She laughed. They both knew it wasn’t a joke.

“Also, you brat” he said, trudging up the stairs with Roach at his heels, “I’m not even classed as middle aged yet.”

She laughed again. Geralt wasn’t sure if it was a joke.

.

.

He faceplanted into bed, pillows muffling his soft groan. Roach jumped up with him and began licking and nosing at his ear and cheek until Geralt eventually lamented and turned over to lay on his back. She then rested her head on his chest, job well done.

Geralt let his eyes slip shut, lulled by his dog’s gentle and steady breathing. He knew that this was the point of having Roach, that there had been years of research into the calming affects animals had on humans, and that she had been trained for this very purpose (among others), but it still filled him with awe whenever he dared contemplate what his pup had done for him.

She had arrived a year after Geralt had properly adopted Ciri. The little girl had been so excited to get a pet and rambled often about how fun it would be and how jealous her friends were. It had broken his heart to sit her down and explain that while, yes, it was going to be lovely having a dog around, it wasn’t going to be like their neighbour’s toy poodle. Roach would be with Geralt most of the time, and her main occupation would be to keep “Daddy happy”, not to play hide and seek in the backyard.

Ciri had gone off the idea, then. At least for a little while. But then Roach arrived, accompanied by her trainer who had brought with them a mountain of paperwork and reading that burst out of the woman’s satchel.

The first few weeks had been rough. Roach was two years old and full of energy, which suited their active household just fine, but it did mean that Geralt was on constant alert when his two girls were together. They were both boisterous, and the last thing he wanted was for his daughter to get a matching facial scar and fear of dogs after an accident.

His worries didn’t last for long, though. Roach responded to routine, just as her trainer had explained, and before they knew it the family was up and running better than ever. Geralt didn’t miss medication doses, so his mood was more stable, as was his sleep schedule. Ciri stopped being late to school. Geralt stopped having to ignore requests for parent-teacher meetings and begrudgingly answering phone calls from frustrated administrators, shame weighing heavy in his stomach.

Having the dog by his side eased a lot of his anxiety around crowds and the noises that came with them, so he started being able to walk Ciri to and from school. She had been so delighted, and relished being able to finally introduce her _actual_ parent to everyone in the playground instead of “Auntie Yen”. The dear child hadn’t noticed the way her friends’ parents held their children a little closer when the big, scarred up man arrived every morning, but Geralt had. Roach proved to be a perfect ice breaker, though – the wonder dog who had saved his little family from himself. Now they only sent worried glances when his back was turned.

They lay there, the inseparable duo, in blissful quiet for a second, Geralt’s fingers tucked under Roach’s collar. He always kept it a little loose. He couldn’t bear the thought of her feeling constricted.

The muscles in his face relaxed. The pain behind his eyes stabbed a little shallower every time. His breathing evened out.

Then, his phone rang.

Shifting to reach into the back pocket of the jeans he’d almost fallen asleep in, Geralt retrieved his traitorous phone and didn’t even bother checking the caller ID before answering with a gruff, “What?”

_“Geralt?”_

Oh, fuck. Jaskier.

“Oh, fuck. Jaskier!”

_“Everything alright?”_

He rubbed any promise of sleep from his eyes and sat up.

“Yeah, I was just… Yeah.”

_“Yeah.”_

“Yeah.”

_“I can call back later if - ”_

“No, no, it’s fine!” He could practically hear Jaskier tearing his cuticles to shreds. “ ‘m just on another planet today.”

Jaskier laughed. _“Oh, which one?”_

Geralt blinked. “Um…”

_“I would go to Neptune because it matches my eyes.”_

There was a pause. Geralt snorted.

“I can’t see you fluttering your eyelashes, Jaskier. This is a phone call.”

_“But you still knew I was doing it! Hah!”_

Sighing as he stretched his neck out, Geralt replied, “Yeah. Coz you’re predictable. And weird,” to his friend’s ridiculous shenanigans.

On the way home after their short… whatever it was… at the park, Roach had stuck her nose in a child’s hopscotch drawn on the pavement and came away with yellow chalk on her snout. Before he wiped it off, Geralt had done something he couldn’t understand. He took a picture and sent it to Jaskier.

_You:_

_Buttercup?_

His phone had rung almost immediately with Jaskier on the other end whining.

_“Listen, okay? She looks adorable but stop iiiiiiittt!”_

And so began the odd tradition of daily phone calls. Geralt would tell himself off for calling it a tradition – it hadn’t even been a week – but the word kept popping up in his head and he couldn’t bring himself to actually squash it out. Roach wasn’t the only one who thrived on routine. That’s what he enjoyed about it. The routine.

Back in the present, the line had gone quiet again, but Geralt couldn’t picture a reason why.

“Sorry.”

 _“No, no! I’m just not sure anyone’s ever called me predictable before,”_ Jaskier rushed in.

He wasn’t, really. Geralt could never tell what the man was going to do next – burst into song (Jaskier wrote songs, apparently), fall quiet and serious, be lost in his own world, or take you for a flying trip through his universe with no brakes or pitstops. Jaskier was _unpredictable_ , but Geralt was getting used to it, and that almost counted.

“I thought you would’ve picked Uranus,” Geralt joked, becoming uncomfortable with the rate at which their conversation was becoming introspective.

 _“Get your mind out of the gutter, Geralt!”_ Jaskier screamed. _“I’ll have you know I’m a very mature and accomplished grown man!”_

Geralt hummed in acknowledgement of his friend’s almost definite lie.

“And what had this grown up bought his sister for her birthday?”

_“Oh, FUCK!”_

He couldn’t help it. He laughed. It was rusty and gritty and misshapen in its nature, but it freed itself anyway, filling up his chest and his bedroom with a rolling rumble.

He may have heard a small gasp on the other end of the phone, but probably not. It’s so hard to tell the difference between poor connection and subtle shifts on the line.

He _definitely_ heard Ciri thundering up the stairs. Even Jaskier did. Clearly, those few years of ballet lessons hadn’t had any effect on his daughter’s grace underfoot.

_“Good lord, Geralt. Is a storm coming?”_

“Sort of.”

The tiny hurricane burst through the door, tight little braids swinging in front of her face. She’d given up on essay writing, then.

“What’d I miss?” She heaved, apparently out of breath from running up the stairs.

“Nothing. What are you doing?”

“I want to know what _you’re_ doing!” She grinned, and catapulted herself onto the bed.

Geralt almost dropped his phone in all the kerfuffle and mess of limbs and hair that was Cirilla attempting to get comfortable next to Roach.

It was just like the first night Roach had stayed at their house. Geralt had quickly found out that holding her close while he fell asleep made everything infinitely easier on his poor subconscious, but little Ciri had been jealous of all the cuddles Roach was getting, as well her dad having the dog sleep on _his_ bed instead of _hers_. So, to avoid a tantrum or tired meltdown, the three of them had spent the night as one, all cuddled up and warm and safe. If he was being honest with himself, it was probably the best night’s sleep Geralt had ever had, at least in his adult life.

They were all older, and Ciri was bigger, now, and there was someone else involved even if the poor guy didn’t want to be, but this afternoon had already been a nostalgia trip. It made sense to add in a little more.

“Is that _Jaskier?”_ The devil spawn ‘whispered’. He was so glad no one else could see the dreadful display she was putting on, waggling her eyebrows like that.

“Yes, Cirilla, Jaskier is on the phone. Would you like to say hi?”

 _“HI!”_ The aforementioned man screeched through the tiny microphone, clearly unsatisfied with only being talked _about_.

Ciri giggled and Geralt felt his chest go tight. She grabbed his phone and put it on speaker.

“What’re you guys talking about?”

“How much of a nightmare you are,” and even Geralt himself is impressed with how deadpan he managed to make that.

_“Ciri, my love, if you were a twenty-nine-year-old accountant, what would you want for your birthday that may or may not have been almost three months ago?”_

“A new life,” she replied instinctively.

Jaskier laughed. _“Okay, well, if you enjoyed being a twenty-nine-year-old accountant, what would you want for your birthday?”_

The girl sat back onto her elbows and considered for a second. She looked so mature like this. Her hair had darkened from the white blonde of her childhood to something more sandy, just like her mother’s.

“Is this for your sister?”

_“YES! Maddy!”_

She grinned. “Well, in that case… If _I_ was Madeleine Pankratz (oh to be so lucky!), I would love anything you got for me, Jaskier! Even if the present was just _you.”_

_“Oh, watch that go to my head.”_

Geralt snorted again.  
“Did that help?” She grimaced. It really wasn’t that helpful, was it?

 _“I think it did,”_ Jaskier said anyway, pitch high and musing. _“Yes… yes… the hamster wheel is spinning…”_

Geralt’s _mind_ was spinning. How the hell did Ciri know more about Jaskier than _he_ did. It most certainly was not jealousy bubbling up in his belly because that would make no sense, to be jealous of your own child’s relationship with your friend – and he was _Geralt’s_ friend. Ciri and Jaskier could be _friends_ , yes - in fact, it would make a whole lot of things a lot easier if they were – but Jaskier was _Geralt’s_ friend.

He wasn’t jealous but he was certainly… something.

“So now you have to help me!”

“Ciri - ”

“So, I have this total bitch of an essay, right?”

“ – I’m sure Jaskier - ”

_“Right.”_

“I have to argue whether Romeo and Juliet is a romance or a tragedy, which is fine, but Mrs Foltein gave us handouts to help with planning and it isn’t on the list of tragedies?”

_“Well that’s stupid. It’s definitely a tragedy.”_

“That’s what I thought! Literally everyone dies!”

“Well, maybe instead of _talking_ about this, you should _write_ it,” Geralt growled, and the room went quiet. Ciri looked at him, a little hurt but mostly confused.

“You’ve had enough of a break,” he said, quickly losing any fire he’d built just moments before. “Go do your homework.”

 _“Come ‘round tomorrow and I can actually help!”_ Jaskier cut in brightly, whether unaware of the tension on the other end of the line or trying to break it. _“Let me put this awful English degree to use.”_

Ciri looked nervous as she glanced Geralt’s way, and that _hurt_. He never wanted his little girl to be scared of him, scared to ask something of him or need something from him. He hated himself with such ferocity in that moment it almost toppled him over.

Roach lay her head in his lap.

“Can I?”

He squeezed a smile out between gritted teeth. “Great idea.”

.

.

Ciri didn’t sit with anyone at lunch anymore. They didn’t eat in the toilets – they weren’t quite that sad – but teachers had begun to notice their solo break-time sessions.

Sometimes the librarian, a surprisingly young man with a man-bun and a penchant for black that rivaled even their father’s, sat with them at one of the benches near the cafeteria. They never spoke and only made eye contact a few very awkward times, but they did appreciate the company.

They still got looks from other students. Some were pitying and some laughed at them. They weren’t really sure what would be more pathetic – being absolutely alone or relying on teachers for companionship.

The only attention they didn’t draw was that of their ex-friends.

They didn’t out them, at least.

They didn’t take them seriously enough to bother.

.

.

Along a row of whitewashed townhouses, across a busy and potholed street from a kebab shop and twenty-four-hour convenience store, was, Ciri hoped, Jaskier’s apartment. Up one flight of stairs and turn right, the text had said.

This better be the place.

They took a breath and trudged up to the communal front door, spying a line of doorbells next to the rusted fuse box. Only three were labelled: P. Callonetta, E. Daven, and J. Pankratz.

The door was bolted when Ciri tried it. They looked around self-consciously, suddenly feeling very suspicious, even though they weren’t.

Well, maybe they were _suspicious –_ a teen skulking around a locked door with a hulking great backpack. Hopefully their disgustingly posh school uniform dispelled any sense of malice, although in reality they knew that the rich kids they went to school with got up to some truly depraved shit.

“You lost, sweetheart?”

Ciri spun to see a beautiful woman, blonde hair ironed dead straight and eyes framed by midnight dark liner, smiling.

“Um…”

“Let me guess,” she said, teeth pearly white and straight. She raised a perfectly manicured finger up and pointed between Ciri’s eyes. They went cross-eyed keeping up.

“Jaskier.”

They giggled nervously. “Yeah. He’s uh - ”

“He always forgets to buzz his students up,” the woman sighed, rolling her eyes.

Ciri was about to dig their heels in and defend their friend’s honour when they noticed the sweet little smirk painting the woman’s lips. Instead, they frowned.

This lady better not get any ideas.

“Lose his head without me!” The woman laughed as her key clicked in the garishly red door. “Loses his keys enough as it is.”

Ciri smiled politely when the woman let her in – they’d been raised perfectly well, after all.

“Have fun up there, sweet. Say hi from me.”

They ignored the wink that came with that and didn’t bother mentioning that they didn’t know who the hell ‘me’ was.

On the way up the stairs, sounds of music and singing could be heard drifting down. One was a strong male voice, lilting high and low and laughing through every note in a way that sounded like pure joy and freedom. The other was quieter, younger. A little raspy and a little wobbly at times, but the guitar accompanying them adjusted when it needed to. Ciri swayed along to the silly song as they continued up.

A guttural yell froze them in their tracks. The sound, thick and jarring, bounced off the walls and left them clutching at the railing so tight they could feel the remnants of the chipped coats of paint that had been covered up rather than sanded down.

Then there was cheering, loud whoops and applause.

Everything was fine.

There were some weird people living in Jaskier’s building…

At the top of the stairs, they swung right and found an avocado green door waiting for them. It had a child’s drawing of the sun (big smiley face and all) taped to it, and a dried-up daisy chain hanging from the handle. If Jaskier was going to live anywhere, it would be here.

They knocked.

“Ye-es?” Came Jaskier’s singsong.

_Oh, God._

He opened the door to reveal himself holding… a guitar. Oh dear.

 _Jaskier_ was the weird people living in the building.

“Ciri!” He cried. “Come in! Come in! Uh…”

They did go in, and saw a boy standing in the middle of the room looking absolutely terrified.

“I did _not_ forget you were coming, but I _did_ miscalculate how many hours there are in a day, so… just pop your stuff on the table and um…” he smiled sheepishly at the boy. “This is Dara!”

“Hi,” Ciri said.

Dara waved, still petrified.

“Was that you singing?”

“Yes!” Jaskier said, placing the guitar on its stand before coming back over. “We do all kinds of stuff like that to bring out our _BEAUTIFUL VOICES!”_

Both Dara and Ciri winced at his volume.

“Anyway! Shakespeare!” He looked back at Dara, still standing stock still in the centre of the Persian rug. “Dara, you can join us if you, um…”

“It’s Romeo and Juliet,” Ciri offered, fishing their crumpled copy of the play from the deep recesses of her backpack. “Sorry it couldn’t be anything more interesting.”

Jaskier gasped. He looked like a drowning (suffocating?) fish.

“Romes and Jules is plenty interesting! The purity and desperation of love, the qualms of unwarranted conflict, the pushes and pulls of family! Where you belong, what you believe, who you _are,_ and what you’ll do to be that person.”

Ciri and Dara shared a look.

“…Okay…”

Their teacher rolled his eyes. “Dara, come sit with us. Even if you don’t do it here, these words’ll be good to get your mouth around at home.”

Both kids snorted in unison.

“Honestly,” Jaskier sighed. “You young people!”

But they could see the smirk and blush on his face.

In a clear attempt to divert attention away from his faux pas, he grabbed the play and held it aloft, looking expectantly Ciri’s way.

“So,” he said. “Romeo and Juliet. Romance or tragedy?”

“Tragedy,” Ciri replied.

“And what makes you say that?”

“Well… Shakespearean tragedies are all about, like, the downfall of the hero, right?”

Jaskier nodded. “That is an accepted definition, yes.”

“Well, there’s no greater downfall than literally dying.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, it’s a tragedy!”

“Ah,” and he smiled. He placed the book gently back down onto his little kitchen table and flattened his hands against the bright orange pine wood. “But we can’t ignore the impact this story has had on the popular consciousness. It’s the most famous romance of all time! Everyone knows about the forbidden love of our two protagonists, both alike in dignity.”

“You literally said yesterday it was a tragedy!”

“Yes! But we’re not writing an essay about what I think, are we? What do _you_ think?”

Ciri sat back in the rickety chair in shock. This was supposed to be helping, not bringing up more questions!

Dara shuffled in his seat across from them.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He opened his mouth again and brought his lips together. Ciri didn’t really know what to make of this display, but something about the awe in Jaskier’s eyes told them they were about to witness something important.

“B - ”

He exhaled.

 _Oh!_ Dara has… some sort of speech impediment. Okay.

But he was singing so well before Ciri arrived.

_Oh._

“B – b…” he licked his lips and looked up at the ceiling, letting his shoulders drop. “Oth.”

Both.

The room was quiet. Jaskier was busy rolling the word around in his brain, which apparently meant rolling it around in his mouth as well, but Ciri was watching Dara. His shoulders were practically at his ears now, and he was picking away at something under the table. Judging by the tension in the fabric of his jumper, probably the cuffs of his sleeves.

“That’s brilliant!” Jaskier exploded, unfreezing the room from its silent moment in time. “Of course! Why the hell would you have to choose?” He laughed. “We’re going to take a, uh, a _non-binary_ approach to all this. You don’t have to choose one or the other. It could be neither!”

He frowned then, catching up with the words he was spouting. “I probably wouldn’t recommend that. Not sure how you’d justify it. But you could! If you wanted to! Or it could be both!”

He stood up and began striding around the room, looking at floating ideas only he could see, but the rush of his enthusiasm swept the other two along with him.  
“Yes! The tragedy of romance. Or,” he gasped again, “the romance of the tragedy! People _love_ a good sob story. _Why?_ Why else do you think our bard wrote so many?”

Jaskier jumped over to Dara’s seat and wrapped him up in a massive hug.

“What d’ya think? You can work with this?”

Jaskier’s eyes were almost glowing with how bright they shone. Ciri had never seen him in his element before, and it certainly was something to behold. They hoped eventually their dad would get to see it too. He’d be an absolute goner, they were sure.

Ciri grinned at the two boys in front of her, infected by Jaskier’s energy and spreading it to Dara, whose own timid smile was beginning to break free.

“Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONCE AGAIN! pls check out the new tags and feel free to drop me a line at https://twitter.com/bohemianuwus if you wanna chat about what's coming up, or just anything in general!
> 
> Much love xx


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yen and Geralt have a short but confusingly eventful chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little on the shorter side, but one of my fwends had a rough week so here you go booboo. Also I'm going down south for the weekend so I want to get this post done and dusted before I worry dfghjk  
> I hope you enjoy anyway!

Deep red wine poured into the fine crystal of Yennefer’s wine glass; the glugging sound amplified by her laptop’s microphone.

“Bit early, isn’t it?”

She arched a perfectly plucked and penciled eyebrow. “It’s 6pm here, Geralt. Get a life.”

He refused to rise to her bait, instead taking a pointed sip of his bottled water.

“How’s it going?”

“Ugh!” She groaned into her hands and rubbed her temples. “These mealworms are _so_ guilty. I’m practically lying through my teeth every time I open my mouth.”

Geralt smirked at her unusual insult – something she’d picked up from a professor at university. Yennefer’s relationship with Tissaia had been heated to say the least, tense at every turn, but God, if that woman hadn’t birthed a rottweiler of a lawyer out of that fire and brimstone.

“You’re good at that,” he said. After all, it wasn’t a game of bait and switch if two weren’t playing.

“What?”

He sipped his water again.

“Oh.” _Lying._ “Yes, I can manipulate a truth I don’t professionally agree with very well.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“You won’t have a problem, then.”

“No,” she replied absently, swirling her drink in its undoubtably jaw-droppingly expensive vessel and avoiding looking at the screen. “You’re right, Geralt – as much as I hate to admit it. Everything will be _just_ _fine_.”

He’d started to worry that he’d crossed a newly formed line when Yennefer had retreated into herself from across the bandwidth, but that little dig set him back at ease. This was the playground they were comfortable in. Nothing too deep, nothing too detailed. Just ‘roasting’, as Ciri was say.

“So, you’ll be home soon?”

She swallowed. “Probably.”

Geralt nodded.

“You’re not missing me, are you?”

He smirked again. “Of course not, but I think Ciri is.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Yennefer hushed, flicking her wrist in a way that had become so archetypally _Jaskier_ in Geralt’s mind that it gave him whiplash. “What does she need me for?”

“There aren’t a lot of other opportunities around for, um,” he cleared his throat, “…girl time.”

She scoffed and drained her glass of its dark contents. “Please. Completely overrated.”

“She does enjoy it, though.”

“Yeah.”

Yen bit her lip and gazed into the middle distance for a moment. Geralt had never seen her so wistful. He half considered asking if the witch was going soft in her old age, but he had no doubt she’d be able to _at least_ severely maim him through the computer, two thousand miles between them be damned.

“How’s your life been?” She asked out of the blue, drawing him away from any vivid imaginings of manicured hands reaching through laptop screens and back into the very confusing present.

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “Your _life._ What’s been happening? Fires, floods, deaths. How’s it going with your little boy toy?”

Geralt rolled his eyes in return. “He’s not a ‘boy toy’, Yen. I’m not like you.”

“Well, how’s it going with your _romantic interest_ , then? If I must be forced to use such disgusting language.”

He considered it for a second. How were they going?

Jaskier seemed lower maintenance than Geralt’s previous partners (Yennefer being all _one_ of them.) He didn’t seem to need to apologise for things. Small tokens were received like grand gestures. He couldn’t really say anything, though. Nothing had happened. They’d had an almost moment and then Jaskier had joked about kissing him for a latte. Not much to write home about.

They’d held hands, though, as infantile as that sounded, and the creak in Geralt’s chest at every sunny smile and twinkling eye was beginning to ease up. He was getting used to it. Getting used to the warmth and the excitement and the anxiety surrounding it all. He might even be enjoying himself. He might be happy, if he’s not careful.

“Good.”

The smack of Yennefer’s bangled wrist on the table broke his computer’s shitty speakers for a second.

“Thank _GOD. Jesus,_ Geralt, you deserve to get snogged senseless one more time before you die. It’s been _years.”_

“We haven’t kissed yet.”

“ _What?”_ she shrieked.

“We almost did,” he supplied, as if that made things any better. “We got… interrupted.”

“If you pull any shit with Cirilla in the house, I _will_ castrate both of you.”

“No! No,” Geralt winced. “It wasn’t like that. It… I think she’s having some…. Troubles.”

“With what?”

A freshly filled wine glass sat perched between two of Yennefer’s long fingers as she sat back in her office chair, growing more serious.

“She won’t tell me.”

Yen hummed. “Teenagers are weird,” she said around the lip of the glass.

“We were just as bad, weren’t we?”

She smiled. “Probably worse.”

Geralt sighed purely on behalf of his father. That poor old man hadn’t signed up for the nightmare his three boys had given him. Or maybe he had. Either way, adding Yennefer Vengerberg to the mix definitely hadn’t helped the guy’s blood pressure.

“Why did you call me?”

Yen rolled her eyes. “Can’t an old friend check in every now and then? Not everything’s an elaborate scheme against you.”

Geralt continued to stare her down through the shitty webcam.

“Why do you want to know?”

“You only ever ask about me when you’re avoiding something.”

She gawked. “That’s not true!”

She knew it was.

“Well, until a minute ago, I thought you were managing adult romance pretty well,” she continued, “but obviously that’s not the case. For God’s sake, Geralt. Stick your tongue down his throat! He sounds flighty enough as it is - ”

“Spit it out, Yen.”

“I’m seeing someone,” she did, in fact, spit out.

Geralt looked at her, bewildered.

“But I’m not sure it’s going to work out.”

“They not enough for you?”

She rolled her eyes. “We broke up over a decade ago. Get over it.”

“We broke up because you realised you enjoyed your 5-speed vibrator more than you missed me. I’m not letting you let that go.”

“Pride is an unattractive accessory, Geralt.”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

She placed her wine glass on the desk heavily and dragged a hand through her ebony black hair.

“You’re impossible.”

Geralt snorted. “No, tell me about this poor sod who’s already disappointing you!”

She frowned. Something behind her eyes had shifted.

“Yen?”

“You’re a prick. Goodbye.”

And their call disconnected.

…That was… odd.

And now he was left alone.

.

.

Geralt didn’t have anything else to do until Ciri got home.

Should he text her? Make sure she found Jaskier’s place alright?

No, that was a little too helicopter-y.

Should he text Jaskier?

No, that was probably even worse.

He sat there, at the kitchen table, for a minute, just listening to the drip of the tap that he hadn’t gotten around to fixing, and the hum of the fridge.

Dusk was setting in, but he didn’t move to turn on any lights. There was a rare sense of peace in watching the shadows of the house merge with the melting darkness of evening light, watching the shapes of furniture he didn’t own disappear into dark silhouettes that shifted when he looked away.

Living in such a nice house, on a nice street, in a nice corner of London had always sat awkwardly with Geralt. He felt more at home surrounded by the stained wallpaper and worn out carpet of his childhood bedroom. In Ciri’s house – and it was _Ciri’s._ Her grandmother had made that very clear in the will – he was always terrified of marking up the pristinely painted white walls with his big grubby hands, no matter how much he scrubbed under his fingernails.

Ciri never really understood it. The kid was pretty much set for life, but it never seemed to click. Her trust fund would open up on her eighteenth birthday, unless Geralt signed a maelstrom of early access paperwork, which he wasn’t going to, but she ignored its existence almost entirely.

Geralt’s pay out and pension paid for everything else, and they weren’t struggling, but if it wasn’t for Calanthe’s ‘connections’, she’d be going to a much humbler school than the circle jerk she was right now. She wasn’t about to go on any big school trips, she didn’t have a summer home in Spain to invite her classmates to, but she didn’t seem mind.

She was always so happy with whatever she got.

Geralt wished he could give her more.

He stood up from the table and banged his hip on one of the corners, wincing as a scarred-up bullet hole flared in sudden pain.

What a sad old man he looked – prematurely grey and stiffer than a plank of mahogany.

His ever-loyal dog trotted over at the thud and hiss of his little accident, ready to supply comfort, just like she always was.

He grunted as he knelt down to meet her, eye to eye.

“Did I fuck up with Yen?”

She sat obediently.

“I think she was trying to talk about something… important.” He inhaled sharply and raised his eyebrows, not that Roach would understand his desperate facial expression. “We don’t really do that… Y’know, when we first met, she had this _awful_ fringe. Pretty sure she cut it herself, even though she swore she didn’t. I’d rather have hair down to my arse than let her near me with a pair of sciss - ”

Geralt’s phone bleeped, interrupting his lonesome laugh and lighting up the now almost entirely dark kitchen with artificial, blue light.

**Ciri:**

If I’m home by 8 is that too late for dinner?

**You:**

No, I’ll wait for you

**Ciri:**

<3 <3 <3 <3

**You:**

Going well?

**Ciri:**

Yes!! Jask’s a GENIUS

**You:**

I’ll expect a good grade to stick on the fridge, then

**Ciri:**

Ofc lmao

_Say hi from me_ , Geralt typed out, and then erased, and then typed out again. It sat there as a fully composed text that he knew he’d never send until eventually he accepted his cowardly fate and exited the messaging app altogether.

No point pretending to be a man he wasn’t.

They hadn’t even kissed.

Not that he hadn’t thought about it. He’d thought about it. He’d thought about it a lot, actually - an embarrassing amount, even. It crossed his mind every morning when he used the mugs they’d drunk cocoa from, every time he pulled Jaskier’s makeshift sleep shirt over his shoulders, every night before Roach’s warm breath lulled him into unconsciousness.

Falling asleep to the image of smiling, pink lips sliding against his own had inspired a fair few… _interesting_ dreams that Geralt hoped would never be seen outside of his own memory.

He felt like a teenager with all his romantic daydreams and feelings of absolute terror around actually enacting them.

It wasn’t as easy as sticking his tongue down the other man’s throat, as Yennefer had so elegantly described, and hoping for the best. He had Ciri to think about.

This was a terrible excuse that his daughter would probably knock him round the head for, and he knew it, but he was sticking to it.

At least for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOMEONE DID ART OF OUR SWEET BOY JASKIER!!!!!  
> https://twitter.com/bohemianuwus/status/1286270712995405825?s=20  
> LOOK AT ITTTTT IT'S BEAUTIFULLLLLLL


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe uhhh long time no see!!! anyway.. here ya go!

Ciri handed in their essay in on Monday.

They got ninety-one percent.

Geralt watched on, helpless, as Jaskier’s lip wobbled. The man blinked tears away as they came, but there were always new ones coming to replace what he’d managed to overcome.

“Um,” Geralt struggled, “so… We just wanted to invite you to dinner. To thank you.”

Jaskier greeted Roach’s comforting nuzzling with a wet smile. She wasn’t used to happy tears. She was doing her best.

“Ciri’s never done this well before. It’s a big moment.”

“It is!” Jaskier agreed. “I’d love to, Geralt. Thank you so much.”

Geralt found himself prepared for the tackle of a hug he was met with. Returning the embrace felt more like a catch than a hold, but the buzz he felt as their bodies collided reminded him that there were a lot of things that they had to talk about besides Ciri’s accomplishments.

Renfri’s sly smile from across the table reminded him that there were things they were _supposed_ to be doing right now, other than blub into each other’s collars.

They had four weeks until the holiday exhibition/party. Four weeks for everyone to complete their projects.

Renfri was making good process carving out a scene on a linoleum block.

_“Negative space. The rest’ll be black.”_

_“Looks like there’ll be a lot of black.”_

_“Of course there will be, it’s an eclipse,” she had said, eyes trained on the thin blade that chipped away at the previously smooth surface. “I want it to be dark.”_

Dara was currently scouring magazines and newspapers for the perfect font. It had come as a surprise to no one when it became clear his artwork would revolve around words.

Geralt’s fingers were cursing him for his choice of craft: wirework. Gripping the pliers firmly, he bent the thin pieces of metal in to rounded shapes as best he could. It wasn’t going to look the way he’d envisioned, he could tell already, but he’d do his best.

Meanwhile, Jaskier… Jaskier sure was doing _something._

He’d pulled out a handful of paper and set up in the corner of the room, or rather set _down_. He’d lined up the sheets into a large square, brought out poster paint, sat down, and just stared.

“How’s your medallion going?” Jaskier asked as Geralt wandered over, giving his fingertips a well-deserved break.

“Fine,” he grunted back. “How’s your…”

Jaskier just blew a raspberry in response. They both ignored the couple of droplets that landed on and wet the paper.

“Do you ever want to do something, and you know you want to do it – like you genuinely actually _do_ want to do it, you’re not just pretending – but you just _can’t?_ It’ll be _good_ to do it. You’ll have _fun_ doing it… But you _just can’t…_ get it out! _”_ The man’s brow was creased and his mouth grimaced, hands grasping at some invisible, intangible, inaccessible concept far out in front of him. “My brain is fucking eating itself alive. I know _exactly_ what the plan is. I can picture it _perfectly...”_

“So, make it.”

He laughed dryly. “If only it were that simple.”

“Why isn’t it?”

Jaskier exhaled, frustrated – whether at himself or Geralt or the whole situation, Geralt couldn’t tell. He’d always left the unenviable task of ‘understanding’ people to his brother Eskel, while he and Lambert sat back, watching (and maybe occasionally judging) from afar.

“There’s a roadblock in my mind. It’ll never be what I want it to be. There are so many places to begin and I don’t know which one is the best one! And depending on which one I chose, the outcome will be different! I’m going _insane!”_ He sighed, chest crumpling up beneath him. “If something goes wrong, I’ll hate it.”

Geralt pulled a chair over to the corner. Jaskier winced at the scraping sound but smiled at the older man as he took a seat.

“Why?” Geralt asked.

“The whole point of art is to bring whatever’s in your head to life, isn’t it? For other people to see or for you to see more clearly or whatever. In my head, there is a perfect picture. Every move I make towards bringing that into reality is also a move away from what I thought it would be, because I can’t control it and I fucking hate it.”

Geralt joined his friend in staring at the blank canvas spread across the linoleum in its separate parts. If it weren’t for the fact that each sheet was so perfectly and precisely placed, edge to edge, you could be forgiven for mistaking it for something in need of tidying. Something would come from it soon, though. Geralt was sure of it.

“You’re afraid of chaos.”

Jaskier hugged his knees. “Isn’t everyone?”

Geralt hummed, growing pensive.

“What are you thinking, Geralt?”

“You’re chaotic. Loud. Bright. Passionate. Doesn’t make sense to be afraid of what you are.”

“And you love every dark crevice of your intricate personhood, do you?”

Fuck.

“Maybe.”

“Darling, if you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

The brunette smiled sadly, knowingly, like he’d told that lie to so many people so many times that some of them had started to believe it. There’s always a heaviness that sits in your heart when you live like that, though. It’s like your soul, if there is such a damned thing, knocks at your chest every night when you’re alone, just to remind you that it’s still there and still knows the aching truth of the falsehoods you breathe.

They returned to their quiet pondering.

Geralt would need to go back to his project if he wanted to finish it in time. It was proving to be finicky in a way his brutish hands weren’t used to.

But he didn’t want to leave Jaskier wallowing in disarray and self-pity.

“Draw one line,” he said finally.

“What?” Jaskier blinked.

Geralt picked up a pot of paint, a strong royal blue, and held it out. “Pick a colour and make something.”

Jaskier’s fingers twitched, but his eyes darted away. The twitches turned to trembles, and Geralt’s chest cracked.

He reached out to place a gentle touch over the man’s hands, scratching at themselves in his lap.

“Even if it’s not perfect,” he whispered, “none of us will know.”

The scratching stilled, as did the air between them. Jaskier’s breath huffed out of his open mouth, drying his lips. Geralt watched as his tongue peeked out to wet the pink skin, and he inhaled.

Their eyes locked as Jaskier’s hand twisted to slot Geralt’s hand into his open palm. A hesitant thumb ran along the tender flesh of his fingertips as wide blue eyes widened further.

“You should bring a thimble next week.”

“Nice of you to think I own one of those.”

The corners of Jaskier’s eyes creased as he laughed. This was a much nicer expression on him.

He took the pot of blue paint from Geralt and unscrewed the cap, shooting nervous glances the older man’s way. He dipped a finger into the poster paint and plopped it near the lower right corner of his paper jigsaw. Geralt nodded to him when he looked over anxiously, and with one brave sweep, a long, curved line was drawn.

Jaskier sat back on his heels, stained pointer hovering by his hip, and bit his lip.

“What do you think?” He asked, apprehensive.

For a while, Ciri had struggled with pedantry. She didn’t colour within the lines as well as other kids at school did, so wouldn’t even try, or couldn’t do her tie with the right knot, so refused to wear it. It had taken a bit of effort to get to the bottom of why she’d been so difficult.

In the end, Judgement had been the answer. She’d been consumed by worry around what other people thought of her.

It was normal for her age, he’d been told. She was becoming aware of other people. Her empathy was developing, and as a result she was realizing that everything _she_ thought, other kids were capable of thinking too.

Geralt didn’t think it was quite the same with Jaskier. Jaskier didn’t seem one to let others dictate his life. Rather, it seemed as though a fear of _self_ -judgement held him back at times.

That’s not as easy to fix.

The corners of Geralt’s mouth quirked up as he regarded the simple, but incredibly important, drawing.

“Perfect,” he said.

Jaskier smiled. “Good. Now, sod off and worry about your own work!”

Geralt braced himself, hands on knees, and stood.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, but any exasperation in his voice was poorly feigned. 

.

.

“Um.”

Geralt turned from the stovetop where he was stirring soup to see his daughter standing in the yellow light of the kitchen, hair glowing blinding gold, fiddling with the keychain attached to her phone case.

“What?”

“How much soup ya making?”

“There’ll be some for lunch tomorrow, don’t worry.”

“And bread?”

He placed a hand on his hip in the position that he _thought_ mirrored his own father’s very well, although according to Yennefer he looked more like a B-grade beauty pageant poser than a tired paternal figure.

“Yes, Ciri. I made a loaf of exactly three slices of bread.”

The girl mumbled, “Four.”

“Huh?”

“We need four slices of bread.”

“What are you talking about?”

“So, when I went to Jaskier’s, there was another guy there - ”

“Another guy?”

“Yeah, like my age, though. Calm down.”

“I wasn’t… un-calm.”

“Sure… Well, he was who really came up with the idea for my essay, so I thought it was only fair to invite him too!”

“And you’re only telling me this now because…”

She gritted her teach in a pained smile. “To err is human?” 

Geralt rolled his eyes and sighed. “Make sure we have enough clean plates, then.”

“You’re the best!” She sung, skipping over to the crockery draw.

Geralt scoffed. She really had no idea.

.

.

Ciri was scowling at the pile of silverware in the centre of the table like it had proven to be a dishonourable opponent in a knife fight. The scrunch of her nose, the sharp points of her eyebrows, and the way her bottom lip stuck out like a Chapstick covered shelf was almost too adorable for Geralt. There was a photo of her with almost the exact same expression up in the cupboard.

Her grandparents had discovered on her fourth birthday that Ciri didn’t like the long sprinkles. Round or bust.

“You’re not Matilda.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Please just set the table.”

She grumbled.

“What now?” Geralt sighed.

“Why are there so many spoons?”

“For dessert as well.”

“How do I set them, though? Do I stack them?”

Geralt couldn’t help the snorted laugh that escaped him.

“I’m asking!”

“I know! I know! I’m sorry.” He took a breath. “Smaller ones on the outside.”

She nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”

He snorted again. “I bloody hope so.”

He was already walking over to the cutlery draw to retrieve a new soup spoon to replace the one Ciri was going to throw at him.

.

.

Jaskier arrived fifteen minutes early this time.

Geralt took his coat while he enthusiastically wiped his feet on the welcome mat. There was a lot of _something_ stuck to the soles of his boots that Geralt was trying not to eye too obviously.

“Cold out tonight.”

“God, tell me about it!” Jaskier laughed, puffs of icy white breath blowing out into the night. “It’s mud!” He rushed out after his spotted Geralt’s failed attempt to not look suspicious. “I took a short cut through a park. Mistake.”

“Just take ‘em off,” Geralt said, tired of holding the door open and letting freezing air into his lovely warm house. Ciri was wearing those awful fluffy house socks, anyway. They could be sock buddies. Or something.

Jaskier shrugged and slipped inside, toeing off his shoes before running into the kitchen crying, “Where’s the genius?”

“Here! Here! Here!” Ciri called back.

Geralt heard manic giggling flutter through the hall as he hung up the blindingly yellow parka, smiling quietly to himself – although he’d never admit it.

.

.

The mystery guest arrived at exactly six o’clock, politely ringing the doorbell once (unlike Jaskier’s erratic on and off strategy) and knocking three times for good measure.

Ciri ran to the door, leaving Geralt and Jaskier in the dust behind her.

“Hi!” She said a bit too loudly, clearly forgetting her inside voice with all the excitement.

“You must be Ciri,” Geralt heard a warm voice reply, well measured but clearly amused by the girl’s antics. “Thank you so much for having Dara,” the woman said as Geralt came into view, her kind face brightly lit with a beautiful smile.

Geralt stopped.

“Dara… yes… No problem,” he said after regaining his footing.

Ciri looked back to him a little sheepishly. Geralt didn’t glare because that would look bad in front of this stranger.

“Text me what time to pick you up,” she whispered to her son, placing a hand on his shoulder comfortingly before using it to push him inside. Ciri grabbed his hand and lead him into the house.

“He should be fine, but if he’s not, just give me a call,” the woman smiled.

“Sure.”

There was a strong family resemblance between the two, that was certain. The same warm, spotless skin, the same dark hair styled in tight curls. But where Dara’s smile was rare and hesitant, this woman’s was dazzling. Where Dara’s eyes darted feverishly in perpetual near-panic, this woman’s gaze was inviting and steady, self-assured and kind. Whatever had left Dara in the state he was hadn’t come from her. Geralt felt pretty sure about that.

“Okay.”

She stepped back from the door and waved. Geralt waved back. He watched her walk back to her car and get in, watched as she pulled out and drove away.

Is _that_ what mothers were supposed to be like?

“DAD!” Ciri shrieked. “Roach wants some soup!”

“Don’t let her lick the spoon ‘til it’s cooled down!”

.

.

Jaskier didn’t know what to do with his hands. Geralt had insisted that he and Dara sit at the table while the hosts served up their meal. The smell of caramelized onion and fresh bread was twisting his stomach into starving knots, and watching the domesticity of Ciri holding the bowls while Geralt carefully ladled in the soup left his heart in a similar predicament.

His fidgeting was matched only by Dara’s, but that was a little more worrying. Dara wasn’t like Jaskier. Dara wasn’t bursting at the seams like Jaskier was. Where the man was steered by great swings of extremes, the boy kept a contemplative middle-ground. If Jaskier couldn’t contain himself because of everything the outside world currently had to offer, he imagined the inverse was occurring in the poor kid’s head.

Harnessing some of the energy thrumming through him, Jaskier nudged Dara’s shoulder. The boy looked up from wear he was pulling at a loose thread on in sweater that hadn’t been there when he’d arrived.

Jaskier raised his eyebrows.

Dara sighed. “I don’t think G-Guh-Geralt was expecting mmme,” he whispered.

Jaskier scoffed. “Don’t be silly! Look, they had a bowl ready for you!”

The boy rolled his eyes a little, which Jaskier ignored, but left his sleeve alone for now. They sat in companionable silence again, staring at the loaf of bread in the centre of the table.

“Can I cut the bread open?” He called into the kitchen. That was probably a bit of a weird way to word it.

Geralt looked over to the table, an understandably confused frown gracing his strong, dark brow.

“Of course,” he grunted, bringing two bowls of hot soup with him into the room. Not far behind was little Ciri cautiously balancing both of their bowls on one arm. There was nothing in their other hand, though. The kid was just living on the edge.

“Dad made it,” Ciri said, an adorably proud expression painting their face.

“Very impressive!”

Geralt harumphed his way into his chair. “S’just sourdough,” he mumbled. “S’not that hard.”

“Oh, hush, and let us compliment you!”

Were you supposed to preen under the sight of someone else’s blush? Because Jaskier could _feel_ his shoulders wiggle when Geralt ducked his head and smiled.

A sharp and deep grumble paused Ciri’s spoon as it rose to their already open mouth. They looked comically to their right to see their father raising an expecting eyebrow.

“Guess we’re starting then.”

Ciri grinned, tasted the soup, and sent Geralt an enthusiastic thumbs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me, long time readers, and welcome to new ones!! I don't always have a super predictable upload schedule but i pwomise to never leave you hanging aha
> 
> til next time! x

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I hope you like it so far! I love hearing people's theories and ideas on the trajectory of the story and character, so if you have something to say please do!!
> 
> til next time x


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